Page 45 of Alien Devil's Wrath
He tried to speak. His mouth worked, throat convulsing. What emerged was: “Please?—”
“Boring,” I said.
My hand moved from his ribs to his throat. I felt each structure—the thyroid cartilage, the cricoid below it, the delicate hyoid bone floating above. The carotid arteries pulsing rapidly on either side. The vagus nerves running alongside. So many options for ending a life.
I chose efficiency.
My grip tightened in one motion. His trachea collapsed with a wet crunch. The hyoid snapped. But I didn’t stop there. Compressed the carotids simultaneously, cutting blood flow to his brain. The vagus nerves got caught in the pressure, triggering immediate cardiac arrest—his heart stuttering, stopping, falling silent.
Three killing methods simultaneously executed. He was dead before his brain could process what had happened. No final thought. No last moment of understanding. Just existence to void.
His body went limp. I held him up for another heartbeat, studying the way life left his eyes. Pupils dilating fully. Skin losing color almost imperceptibly as circulation ceased.
“At least the physiological cascade was remarkable,” I murmured, then let him drop.
He crumpled at my feet, head lolling at an angle confirming vertebrae had separated. Very thoroughly dead.
I turned to face the room.
The guards stood frozen. Weapons raised but trembling. They’d just watched me appear from nowhere and kill their commander with one hand. Their fear pheromones created layers. Sharp Krelaxian anxiety, musty Mondian dread, acidic Poraki terror.
Zarek was still on his knees, staring at me. Blood ran from the shallow cut on his throat, mixing with everything else painting him red. His exhaustion pulled at me, but underneath was awe. Pride. Love so fierce it made my chest tight in ways that had nothing to do with transformation.
I walked to him, stepped delicately over Slade’s corpse. The blood on the floor was tacky under my bare feet—they’d lost my shoes somewhere during capture.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said softly, holding out my hand to help him up.
His hand engulfed mine. Even exhausted, even broken, his grip was steady. Warm. Home. He rose to his feet, swaying. I moved closer, let him lean against me. My new strength held his weight easily.
“You’re—” His voice cracked. Eighteen hours of fighting had left him hoarse.
“Upgraded,” I finished. “We can discuss the technical specifications later. Right now, we have a compound to escape and guards to evade. Or kill. I’m flexible.”
The Mondian guards were backing toward the door, scales rattling—autonomic fear response. One reached for his comm unit.
“I wouldn’t,” I said pleasantly. “I’m still learning my own strength. Might accidentally remove your arm instead of just taking the comm.”
He dropped the device. It clattered on the blood-soaked floor.
But I bent down and picked up Slade’s command pad, still clipped to his belt. The screen was active, his biometrics keeping it logged in even after death.
His body had other useful items. Credit chips in his breast pocket—untraceable bearer chips, the kind corrupt officials loved. I pocketed them all. A data stick on a chain around his neck, hidden under his uniform. That went into my pocket too. Another stick in his boot—paranoid man, multiple backups.
Good for us.
"What are you doing?" one of the guards asked, voice shaking.
"Shopping," I said absently, still rifling through pockets. "Your boss won't need these anymore, and life out there is expensive."
“Tsk, tsk,” I said, fingers flying across the interface of the command pad. “Still logged in. How sloppy.” I found what I was looking for quickly. “Shield controls. Full compound access. And look—emergency protocols.”
I selected ‘Total Shield Failure’ from the emergency menu. The screen flashed red, requesting confirmation. I pressed Slade’s limp thumb to the scanner.
“Shield generators disengaging,” the system announced. “Warning: planetary defense grid offline.”
The guards’ eyes widened. Without shields, every prisoner who could find a ship could escape. The chaos above was about to get exponentially worse.
“Run,” I told them. “Or die. I’d prefer you run—I want to test my tracking abilities. But dying is faster if you’re in a hurry.”
