“They won’t,” I reply, my eyes gleaming with fierce determination. “We draw them all in, then I’ll be upon them. The corridors will run green with their blood.”
Keth finishes the preparations, and the distress signal goes out. “SOS broadcast initiated. They’re responding. Approaching faster.”
“Good.” I turn to exit, seeking to retrieve my armor. “Shut down all non-essential systems, open the docking hatches. Keth, Nexarn, you guard this room. Inform Reneth, Vexius and Zirix to guard the engines.” I glance over my shoulder at Ignixis. “You… stay out of trouble.” I struggle to think of anything useful for the oldgas-cloudto do.
Exiting the command center, the purple lights fade and the engines grow quiet, leaving behind only my thudding footsteps and the sound of roaring lava coursing through my veins.
Time to vent some steam.
Chapter 8
Alexandra
Pink
Pink.Ofallthecolors, it had to be pink.
I glare at Sandra through blurry eyes, swollen from hours of crying. Her pajamas are the same garish shade as my ruined Chanel.This is her fault. I bet that hateful Dracoth mixed our clothes together, doing whatever weird alien thing he did to them, causing the dye to run. The universe conspires to add insult upon insult.
I lie curled up on the cold metal floor, wrapped in furs like some misery-garnished human burrito, trying to ignore Carmen’s relentless pacing. There’s something almost soothing in this familiar despair, warmed by the musky smell of these furs. Where did they come from, anyway? Some massive beast with two heads and six clawed arms? Hardly. Probably from cutelittle bunny creatures our oh-so-brave kidnapper strangled to death—twisting their little heads off with glee on his ugly face.
Fuck him and that Demon Egg-Head.
Every time he stomps past our cell like the not-so-jolly-red-fucking-giant, I want to retch. Slasher Dracoth often dumps some awful rubbery bars on us that could double as doorstops. Right now, I’m gnawing one, my jaw aching with effort. Who knew the secret to weight loss was inedible bars and abduction-induced torture? He even asks us how we’re doing—as if he cared. If he did, he wouldn’t have kidnapped us or ruined my beautiful Chanel.
Usually, Carmen does the talking, spitting insults like she’s auditioning for a battle rap. I’m grateful; it often drives him away and leaves me to wallow in my justified misery. Has anyone in history ever suffered such indignities? Joan of Arc, Princess Diana, Jesus? I don’t wish to be big-headed, but I might be up there.
Kazumi and Sandra cry and beg for Earth, but lately they’ve perked up a bit, leaving me to shoulder the group’s despair quota. At least they have homes to miss. What do I have? A hateful mother who disowned me, a father who wishes I were dead, debt, homelessness. A life of wearing used shopping bags and eating garbage, surrounded by smelly people. Michael, Todd, Sarah, Roger... hell, my entire boarding school would love it if I ended up as the homelessBigfootof New York—a cautionary tale.
A fresh round of sobs shakes me as I clutch my ruined Chanel. Like my life, it was once beautiful and effortlessly elegant, but now it’s marred in pink-hue shit and torn to ribbons.
“You crying again,chica?” Carmen asks, sighing loudly, her footsteps echoing across the black floor, which serves as my harsh bed.
“Go away,” I whimper between loud sniffles and wails, pulling the furs tighter around me.
“You’ve been crying for days!” Carmen exclaims, her footsteps halting nearby. I assume she can only see the darkness of my furry cocoon of suffering. “It’s driving meloca.” Her footsteps draw closer, and I squirm into the corner, avoiding the so-called toilet—another horrible indignity.
“Leave her alone, Carmen,” Sandra interjects in her thick Scottish accent.You tell the annoying loudmouth.“Not everyone is like you.”
Carmen scoffs. “Princesahere was calmer than water until she came back from that pod.” She moves closer and I estimate she’s standing directly above me. “Now she’s busted.”Yep, her voice is very close.
Piss off, Carmen. Just leave me alone!
“You don’t know what they did to her in there,” Sandra retorts. Their exchange irks me; I just want to be forgotten. “They might have... touched her,” she posits with a whisper.
I touched myself, for fuck’s sake. Kill me now.
“No way,chica,” Carmen replies, her attention seemingly turned to Sandra. “That green stuff fixed me up. You see this?” she asks, shifting above me. “Nine millimeters straight through to the bone. Hurt like aperra. Now.” She tsks. “Good as new.”
What if I put my Chanel in the pod?
“She right,” Kazumi interjects with broken English and a thick Japanese accent. “My hands and eyesight much better.” The green mists felt amazing. The only fleeting joy I’ve experienced since that awful interview.
“See?” Carmen declares, as if something important has been revealed. “They never touched ourPrincesa.” Her voice sounds very close now. I imagine she’s creeping just above my furs. “It’s something else!” she shouts.
I scream in protest as my soothing blankets of furs are torn from my shaking grasp, leaving me huddled and naked on the floor. The cold rushes to envelop me, making goosebumps appear all over. Carmen stands over me smirking, my furs clutched in her grip.
“Give me back my blanket, you fucking bitch!” I spit, my despair evaporating against my seething anger.
