Page 31 of Alien Devil's Wrath
I recognized the model—military grade, designed to disorient my kind. I turned my head, squeezed my eyes shut, but it wasn’t enough.
The detonation drove spikes through my skull. The world became white noise and spinning darkness. My knees hit stone. My muscles refused to obey, and I collapsed back to the stone, the world a spinning vortex of noise.
Through the chaos, I heard her voice—not words, just the sound of her. Then boots on stone, moving away. Getting farther.
“Bronwen!” The name tore from my throat.
Another detonation. This one sent me sprawling, my face pressed against cold rock. The ringing in my ears was a physical presence, drowning out all other sound, thought, even rage.
When the worst of it passed, when I could focus enough to understand words again, the Krelaxian commander was crouched beside me, his scarred face close to mine.
“Warden’s orders,” he said, his voice cutting through the ringing. “The woman comes with us. You stay here.” He leaned closer. “He wants you to feel exactly what your squad felt when he left them to die. Helpless. Abandoned. Watching everything that matters disappear.”
They were dragging her away. Through the spinning haze, I could see her getting smaller, farther, the guards hauling her toward a transport I hadn’t noticed before.
My arms wouldn’t respond properly. The stun effects would pass, but not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough.
The commander stood. “If you’re smart, you’ll crawl back into whatever hole you came from. But Slade’s betting you’re not smart. He’s betting you’ll come for her.” A pause. “He’s looking forward to it.”
They left me there in the dirt, restraints cutting into my wrists, the compound a distant shadow that held everything that mattered.
BRONWEN
The guards dragged me through the compound’s entrance, their grip unnecessarily tight on my arms. The transition from rough stone to polished metal floors told me everything about this place—sterile, controlled, the opposite of the living chaos I understood.
I let my feet stumble, playing the part of a frightened captive while cataloging every detail. Left from the entrance. Right at the junction where three corridors met. The ventilation hummed at a steady frequency, about 60 hertz. Worth remembering.
“Move faster,” one guard muttered, yanking me forward—a Poraki whose amphibious skin had dried to an unhealthy grey in this sterile environment.
I whimpered—the sound felt ridiculous coming from my throat, but his grip loosened slightly. Males like these always underestimated tears, regardless of species.
The walls were reinforced steel, no windows, no natural light. Every twenty meters, a security checkpoint with cameras. The cameras tracked movement but had a two-second delay in their rotation pattern. I filed that away.
We passed a room where guards lounged during shift change. I counted twelve inside—a mix of species taking breaks.Krelaxians comparing notes, humans playing cards, a Mondian cleaning his weapon. The wall display showed the time. Three hours until the next rotation.
The detention level smelled sharp—industrial cleaners that burned my nostrils. They shoved me into a cell—white walls, white floor, single bench, small ventilation grate near the floor. A small window broke the solid door. It sealed with a pneumatic hiss.
“Warden will see you soon,” the Poraki guard said through the small window. “Try to get comfortable.”
Their footsteps faded. I counted to one hundred, then dropped the terrified act.
The room was six paces by four. The bench was bolted down but had a loose bracket that could become a weapon with enough work. The ventilation grate was standard size, too small for escape but useful for other purposes.
I pressed my ear to the door. Footsteps passed every few minutes—regular patrols, predictable timing. The walls were thick but not soundproof. I could hear muffled voices from adjacent cells.
Time to meet the warden.
Joric Slade entered my cell two hours later, flanked by two guards. He was exactly what I expected—polished surface over rot. Pressed uniform, styled hair, the kind of masculine beauty that came from genetics rather than character. After days of Zarek’s raw, honest violence, Slade looked fake, manufactured.
“You’re the woman who was traveling with the Vinduthi.” Not a question.
I pressed myself into the corner, letting my eyes go wide. “Please, I don’t know anything. He forced me to guide him. I was so scared?—”
“Stop.” He held up a manicured hand. “I’ve reviewed the nest footage. You directed those creatures to attack my men.”
Footage. They had cameras in the nest? No, more likely helmet recorders on the patrol. Some must have transmitted before dying. Noted.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered, adding a small tremble to my voice.
