“Help!” Eivaley screamed as her eyes shot open, her lungs stretching to the limit, causing her throat to burn.
Eivaley’s body reacted naturally to what she thought had happened moments before; her heart rate shot into orbit while adrenaline wracked her tight, unused muscles, causing horrendous lightning pain as they flushed with blood, readying to run from the Voodal.
It took her several seconds to consciously realize why she was trying to run and from what. She was inside the nightclub. Torkla had been shot dead by some alien gangsters who were trying to drug her.
No, wait—they did drug her. But that man—saved her. Where was he? Why was he not at her side when she awoke like the stories she had been told? Or as a champion was expected to do?
That metal-armed man had hefted her over his shoulder and whisked her away from the gunfight like a champion should. Did he not realize what he had done for her species? Did he not care? No, it could not be that—she was a princess, and everyone she was around could recognize her regality.
It was evident in her attire, chin held high, piercings along her brow, and namely in the essence that oozed off her and other nobles. They were proud and stalwart, save for a few instances, such as the noble women's champions.
He was supposed to be here to state his desire and take her. That was only the proper thing to do. But he had left her alone. It was all so confusing.
After ruminating on that idea for several minutes, Eivaley realized she had no idea where she was or what was going on. She was just caught up so much in the fact that the man was not here that it had slipped her mind.
Eivaley sat up in bed, and the rough blanket covering her fell to the ground, leaving her as naked as the day she was born. Under usual circumstances, her being naked when she wakes up would not be odd, but she had been dressed when she was drugged.
Who in all the universe had the gall to strip her? With her still imagining the man who whisked her away as someone valiant hero, she hoped it had not been them. But if not them, then who?
She swore if they did anything strange to her while she was drugged, they would face the worst wrath money could buy, and in the COS, enough crit signs public death warrants. The gods certainly knew Daddy had deep enough pockets to condemn a planet to that fate.
If she learned anything harmful was done to her, they would not live longer than a few days at most. But that could be dealt with after Eivaley figured out where she was, talked to the man who saved her about his proper role as her champion, and ensured Daddy compensated that man well.
The room was cold and damp, the chill making her scales ripple in a shiver. Nearby, there was a single metal table and chair. The small light hanging down from the ceiling gave her a clear view of the rugged grey duracrete walls and the closed, shining steel door at the far end.
Swinging her legs out from the rough, uncovered, stained mattress, Eivaley scrunched her nose, realizing how horrendous the scent was. It was a foul combination of rotting meat and stagnant air.
What is this place? The only thing its drab, oppressive build reminded her of was prison cells in some spy hollow flicks that were her guilty pleasure.
Even though Daddy did not want her watching stuff like that, Eivaley regularly snuck them into the mansion or watched them with the servants on the private frigate he had her travel on. Daddy claimed they would fill her head with useless ideas and distract her from the duties she would never have to fulfill.
She ignored Daddy not out of malice but because of Torkla's advice that a life without excitement would be painfully dull and wasted.
She was about to walk closer to the door but spotted something neatly folded on the chair. Scooping the faded garments into her hand, she cringed. They looked almost like scrubs but had patches and stains covering them.
Considering what she was wearing, namely nothing, Eivaley could not be picky right now, even though the rough material likely would chafe. The clothes were unbefitting of her station, and the stars only knew what the stains on the crotch were.
Eivaley quickly donned the oversized garment, ensuring her tail was sticking out the back and that her more sensitive areas were as covered as possible. Could the man not at least have left her underwear?
As Eivaley put on the clothes, she kept looking around and listening, trying to gain more of a sense of the area and not let someone jump her again. She was confident she had seen everything in this room; there was nothing she could not see at a glance.
Listening, however, revealed something. It almost sounded like someone singing, but they were horribly out of tune. Their voice was clearly going through some kind of synthesizer, having a bit of an unnatural crackle and pop.
Now that she had some semblance of modesty, it was time to figure out what was going on, even though the scrubs were so large they were damn near falling off her shoulders.
As Eivaley hesitantly pushed open the door, the scent of rot only got more intense, and the sound of the voice became more apparent. The door opening made her feel much better about her situation; if she were a prisoner, there would be guards and locks.
Instead of those obstacles, she faced a well-lit hallway with built-in overhead lights. Steam poured out of old, damaged piping, filling the passage in a haze, barely letting her see a pair of doors at the end.
One had bright light and the synthetic voice pouring from it, while the other was firmly closed, with a small palm reader next to it.
Ok, maybe she was locked in here. But a little exploration was possible, and whoever was singing might be able to give her some answers.
Shielding her head from the steam, Eivaley slinked forward, her feet plopping against the wet floor. Peaking around the doorframe, she was confident she could handle anything. She was the Fifth daughter of the Torkla empire, after all.
Oh, how wrong she was.
Not even the sight of Torkla’ head halfway exploding could prepare her for this. The room was some kind of medical room. This room was nothing like her usual doctor's office, instead of the clean, sterile white, and neat design.
This room was one pulled straight out of her nightmares—dozens of glass cabinets filled with medicine, narcotics, cybernetic components, and body parts floating in formaldehyde covered the walls. Nothing was clean; it was dusty, coated in dried blood, oil, and god knew what else.
Dead in the center of the room was a strange grey-skinned alien, extending his spiderlike augmented legs upward to guide a light arm closer to the alien-like alien strapped to a table.
Eivaley thought the man on the table was asleep or dead until the grey alien stopped singing, leaned down, and ran a scalpel under the alien's eye. The bird-like alien screamed at the top of his lungs, loudly enough it caused Eivaley’s blood to run cold.
What the fuck was she witnessing? Some horrible torture session? An execution? Some sick, twisted serial killer kill room?
As the avian thrashed against the straps holding him to the table, she gagged for a moment, then nearly threw up when the leather snapped tight.
The gray alien shifted over the top of the seemingly unwilling patient, “You wanted this. Now shut up, hold still, and let me work,” He growled; two of the spider-like appendages holding him up shifted and drilled into the sides of the patient's head, holding them still from the shoulders up.
Eivaley wondered if it was good that the devilish doctor silenced the bird, but her heart was glad he was not screaming anymore.
With a twist and a squelch, the doctor pulled the patient's eyes out and tossed them off to the side. Whether through preternatural means or sheer dumb luck, they plopped into a jar sitting on a cart.
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Most sentients in the universe have heard about the fight-or-flight response because nearly all species that made it to the stars had some form of it. However, one thing that not everyone knows is that those are not the only two options when placed in a shocking situation.
There are two others most did not know by name but did through action: fawn, meaning you show pleasing or more submissive behavior, hoping the threat does not harm you.
Then there was what Eivaley fell victim to—freeze.
She fell to her knees, uncaring that the impact on the metal grating on which she stood had carved them open slightly.
At the same time, she sputtered, attempting to say anything. Her mind was unable to comprehend the grotesque torture fully.
Time warped in on itself, and she had no idea how much time had passed before the horrendous surgery was over. But she witnessed it all: the spider scuttling, grabbing cybernetics, and drilling them into the bird's skull, all while he cruelly hums a jaunty tune, was beyond surreal.
Once satisfied with his work, the demonic doctor's torso twisted around entirely, tucking a bloody tool into a slot in his forearm.
He had not noticed her presence during his practice, despite him scurrying around to different cabinets—but he knew she was there now.
“How long ago did you wake up?” He snickered and slowly crept forward, the apparatus on his head shifting between several optical lenses as he did.
When her eyes finally settled on whatever this thing called normal, they were as red as blood and glowing with fire and villainous curiosity.
Those cruel eyes scoured Eivaley's trembling form, plucking her apart at the very molecule. An evil smile crawled onto his ash-grey lips, revealing rows of clear, crystalline teeth. They glowed just like his eyes, giving the man a horrendous Cheshire appearance.
As the doctor got closer, Eivaley's heart rate shot into orbit, sweat formed on her palms, and the most primal part of her soul screamed at her to move, or she would die at the demon's hands.
“What is it, Eivaley? Can you not speak standard?” the doctor asked, reaching out to jostle her, recognizing that she seemed to be in shock.
Stitch found that she was not speaking odd; he had pumped enough nanotech and drugs in her to keep her that she should feel better than ever.
The millisecond, his artificial hand clasped her shoulder, bedlam befell Stitch’s humble surgery room.
Though still not coherent, Eivaley screamed and tossed a hail mary hit toward whom she perceived as a threat. One the good doctor had not seen coming at all.
With a hefty crack, her fist collided with his jaw, rattling his bones and sending him reeling.
“What the fuck was—” Stitch started but cut himself off when Eivaley rushed into a corner, overturned a table, and grabbed the first object she could, readying to throw it at him.
Not wanting his shop to be destroyed, Stitch activated his automatic security systems, knowing how strong humans were. They would alert just the man he needed to get here right now.
Conor.
—
The crowd around Conor parted quickly, shouting in worry and panic, trying to understand why he was running, and had his suppressed pistol in hand.
They were doing this because he had just shoved a pair of Urintit who refused to heed his warnings to make a hole; he had not shot them, there was no need, and he needed all of his ammo for whatever was going on at Stitch’s clinic.
He had no idea what was going on. All that Conor knew was that the automatic defense systems there had alerted him to go to Stitch’s place immediately, warning him that the tech-head had been wounded and needed aid.
His boots sloshed in the deep puddles. Conor was unsure whether the water was from a leak somewhere in the upper city or whether it actually rained today. In this area of the city, determining the weather or whether it was day or night was impossible. Things like day, night, and weather just did not exist this far into the belly of Heavalun.
The lights on the walls and ceilings were supposed to dim and brighten to simulate some kind of day-night cycle, but because of years of neglect, these more built-up areas were snared in a perpetual dim orange twilight.
The wan light and crowd were easy enough for the mercenary to maneuver, thanks to his thermal vision, wired-up legs, and razor-sharp reflexes. He barreled through civilian after civilian. He even left a half-smash food cart in his wake, but he ditched his meal to answer Stitch’s call; whoever was waiting on their kebab could suffer the same fate.
It wasn’t like their meals were his issue.
Nothing was going to stop him; both he and Brakul needed that princess to be unharmed, and he needed Stitch’s meds to live.
Having pushed his servos to their limits Conor had covered the ten kilometers from the noodle shop he was eating at to Stitch’s clinic in record time—but how much had unfolded in that twenty minutes, he could not say.
Thankfully, Stitch had set his doors to automatically open for him when the alert went out, so Conor wrenched the heavy metal door to the clinic open like it weighed nothing. Its frame vibrated as the door slammed against the wall.
Clearing room by room, ensuring no one was in the rooms, he proceeded through the living room, the kitchen, and the bedroom hall leading to the basement.
It was odd. There were no signs of a struggle on the upper floors; they were just as he had seen them earlier in the day. Neat, tidy, and relatively clean.
That made Conor wonder: Did some patient of Stitch go nuts at attacking him mid-surgery? If that was the case, was his pistol enough? Stitch has always strapped patients down, having been in hundreds of his surgeries here. If they broke out—how strong were they?
But Conor did not have the time to grab something more robust or specialized. His pistol, strength, and violence of action would have to do.
Before he reached the stairs, the sounds of shouting from a woman and Stitch filled the air. That was a good sign; at least the doctor was alive.
Descending the stairs and opening the door at the bottom, Conor cleared the hallway to where the red-scaled bombshell had been resting with a glance but did not proceed down it. He would check it after helping Stitch.
He crossed the hall toward the sounds of shouting and smashing glass, knowing whatever danger was in the clinic must be there.
“Stitch, what’s going on?” Conor shouted, rushing into the room with his handgun raised, ready to shoot anything that was not the doctor or the woman.
It took him less than a second to asses that he would not have to shoot anyone. The Human, who, through reading her ID card a few days ago, he knew was named Eivaley, was the problem that the system alerted him of.
“Get the fuck away from me!” She shouted, throwing another beaker at Stitch from behind an overturned table she used as an impromptu barricade.
To the tech head's credit, he was doing a good job of avoiding the projectiles, as evidenced by the floor around him being covered in shimmering glass shards.
“Conor, stop your crazy bitch!” Stitch barked, ducking under another throw. “Before she hurts my patient or me.”
Stowing his pistol and sighing, Conor stepped between them, grabbing the next projectile thrown into the air.
“Eivaley, stop!” Conor barked, turning to face her. “Stitch is not going to hurt you.”
Eivaley wound up another throw as he did this but stopped, recognizing two details about Conor: First, his metallic arm, clutching her last toss, and second, his voice. She could not forget either; they were ingrained into her mind and soul after the other night.
“Ok, now that we aren’t throwing shit at your doctor, can you put that down and come out here?” Conor more commanded than asked, but that was just his nature to be more upfront than not.
“That thing is not going to hurt me, right?” Eivaley questioned, still clutching her ammunition.
“I have been saying that this whole time you—” Stitch started, but Conor hushed him.
“Doc, shut off that damn alarm,” Conor ordered, looking back over his shoulder for a second.
“Fine, just control her,” Stitch replied after pausing momentarily and turning his attention to his datapad.
Conor turned to Eivaley, “No, Neither of us will hurt you. Fuck, he fixed you from that drug, and I dragged your ass here. If we wanted you harmed—you would be.”
Eivaley paused, setting the bottle down and taking stock of the situation. The strange Human was right; they could have killed her, sold her, or done anything, but as far as she could tell, she was in good health.
“OK—But can I get my clothes back? And an explanation of what the fuck is going on?” Eivaley said, stepping out from behind the table.
“Fine, just stop busting up my shop!” Stitch emphasized. “Conor–take her upstairs; her clothes are in the guest room.”
“Alright, Doc.” Conor shrugged before stepping toward the door.
He did not even glance at Eivaley, assuming she was smart enough to follow—which she did.
“So your name is Coner?” Eivaley questioned on their way up the stairs, wanting to know his name since he saved her, and she would have to ensure he and his friend were paid well by Daddy for their efforts.
“Been that as long as I've known,” the Human replied flatly, not caring how intently Eivaley was staring at him.
“Conor? I've never heard a name like that,” Eivaley commented. “Where is it from?”
“Ask all your questions in a bit. You have to get dressed, and we can talk later; just wait in the living room once you have changed. I’m going to go help Stitch out,” Conor replied, pushing open the door and ushering her in.
It was not that he was unwilling to answer mundane questions, but there was no point in detailing those things for a future client. She would just forget it anyway.
“Alright—my champion,” Eivaley purred, slipping inside the room and shutting the door.
Conor had no idea what calling him champion was about but had no doubt he could ask later. For now, he pulled out his datapad and texted Brakul, needing him to hurry up and get here.