I suppress a sigh.Can’t she stay focused for two seconds?“That could mean anything, Carmen.” I wave a dismissive hand toward her, attempting to steer her back to the real issue: Sandra.
“No, no,” Carmen shakes her head. “I saw that look in her eyes. She was excited to go with the bigpendejo—wanted to go.” Her face twists in disgust. “They’re probablycogiendoright now.”
I’m not sure what ‘cogiendo’means, but I guess it involves being naked.Fuck, it’s not just me then—Carmen sees it too.Sandra’s got the head start, and I might’ve stumbled right out of the gate. But it’s not like I haven’t taken someone’s boyfriend before—did them a favor, if anything. Bunch of losers...
Carmen grimaces, running a hand through her dark, wavy hair. “Kazumi, don’t tellRojaabout the plan,” she warns.
Kazumi nods weakly, her face pale and drawn as usual, but I barely register her response. My attention shifts as footsteps echo faintly down the corridor, growing louder with each passing heartbeat. It must be Sandra and Dracoth returning. A wave of relief washes over me—they haven’t been gone too long.
But maybe it was long enough?
Chapter 16
Dracoth
Meek
SandraandItravelthrough the dim, purple-lit corridors. My eyes remain focused ahead, while hers scan every detail, a look of wonder on her face. It’s a relief to see something other than despair in her expression. She walks close, perhaps seeking my protective presence from the unknown. But she has nothing to fear—for now.
Her smallness is amusing to me, little more than half my height. Could Arawnoth truly bond me to one such as her? These human females are all undersized, with Princesa being the tallest and most robust. Yet even she is eclipsed by me—like all sentient beings. It’s an impossibility, finding a female to match my stature. Perhaps, if our Klendathian females still lived... But the older warriors speak of how they were taken from us by theScythians. Something my noble father supported, his reasoning a mystery to me.
I cannot deny Sandra is pleasing to look upon—her hair kissed by an Earth-like sun, her exotic skin so pale it’s nearly white. She smiles, and her blue eyes sparkle with curiosity. These human females are the least alien to my eyes, their facial features much like ours, albeit more delicate and undersized. Like a beautiful blooming flower that could snap in a strong wind.
“Where are we going, Dracoth?” Sandra asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her tone is curious, not fearful.
“Your clothes,” I reply, glancing down at the pink, bloody ribbons that struggle to hide her petite curves. “Need replaced.”
“Class,” Sandra exclaims with sudden excitement. It’s difficult to understand these human females with their different accents and strange words that don’t quite translate or match the context, but the tone is unmistakable. “You caught me in my pajamas. If I’d known, I would’ve worn something less embarrassing,” she giggles—a sweet, foreign sound to my ears.
Another word unknown to me—one of many. “Pajamas?” I inquire as our footsteps echo through the distant hum of the ship’s engines.
“Oh,” Sandra scrunches her face. “They’re, like, sleeping clothes, or nightwear. Don’t you... wait, what are you?” she asks, her gaze now studying me with newfound curiosity.
I am the fire that will consume Krogoth.
“We are Klendathians from the planet Klendathor. This ship’s destination,” I answer, relishing the look of surprise spreading across her pretty face.
“We’re heading to your home planet?” she asks, eyes wide.
I nod.
Her eyes light up as she exclaims, “Class!”—that strange word again, used for joyous approval. “What’s it like there?”
Images flash in my mind: rivers of molten lava burning through twisted crags and that stretch to skies bursting with purple lightning; lush, forested lands of red, with creatures and trees as large as battlebarges; vast waters stretching as far as the eye can see; endless dunes beneath a scorching sun; northern sleets of immense ice. Its frozen tundra's abhorrent to my molten blood.
Too many words. “Primordial,” I utter, the single best word to describe it.
“Primordial?” Sandra repeats, her eyes gazing off into the distance.
We arrive at the cramped replicator room—or what’s left of it. Many of the devices have been torn from the walls, likely looted from the decommissioned ship, repurposed, resting in the dens of the dishonorable.
Dotted between the gaps rest a few, covered in dust, their black metal frames speckled with rust. I’m doubtful they remain functional.
But I persist, activating my wrist console. Sandra glances around, confusion etched on her face. “There are really clothes here?” she asks, skepticism in her tone.
“If Arawnoth wills it,” I reply. My wrist console scans the locale for a functioning replicator. My God must favor Sandra, as a nearby device sputters to life. Blue lights, which trim the black metal, flicker on, casting a dim glow over the decrepit room.
I extend my wrist console projection. “Select,” I offer for her to join me.
