4. Drasuk

4

Drasuk

The world flickers back into existence in agonizing waves. A wave of nausea washes over me, forcing a guttural groan out of my throat.

I lay still for what feels like an eternity with the tangy taste of something metallic clinging stubbornly to my tongue.

Slowly, ever so slowly, my body rights itself. A low rumbling gurgle erupts deep in my stomach, accentuated by a stabbing pain in my liver that quickly eases up the longer it hammers on my nerves.

Slowly, like an ancient vehicle slowly stirring to life after years of inactivity, the obnoxious sensations leave me.

The benefits of possessing a drakonid physiology—whilst not as efficient or hardy as a manticorid—can never be overstated.

Bodily functions are returning, and I can still feel my liver efficiently filtering and expelling the genali toxins from my system. At least there's that.

A perverse comfort.

That gas, whatever it was, won't be as potent when next used on me. My body has already begun building immunity.

It has been a while since the pink-covered insects made a toxin that took this long to purge from the body.

It would seem that their scientists weren't avoiding their duty.

Though I suppose no one would with Shentrea cabal in power.

From all accounts, they are just as likely to kill their own as their enemies from other species. It might also explain their newfound interest in us if they are testing out another round of biological weapons.

If they think they've perfected new compounds and weapons, it will make them more reckless. If they can conquer us, then they can subjugate almost any species.

They must feel the need for more efficient tools for their expansionist plans.

I could guess why.

Leave a pest running about your cave long enough and the seemingly helpless creature will develop a system to make sure the actual owner would be hard-pressed to eject the new proprietor.

Perhaps I'll write a feed about it in the future? A compendium of how the various sentient species of the mapped universe exert dominance?

An odd topic to write about, but I hear the reading tastes of the more refined drakonids in the richer systems are vast and diverse.

Too bad my clan wasn't exactly equipped in terms of philosophers and anthropologists.

I mash the errant thought as the last vestiges of my nausea subside and push myself upright to survey my surroundings.

The contrast is clear even before I can take in the finer details.

Gone are the harsh, irradiated plains of the khufulle grounds. Instead, I find myself nestled amongst the thick undergrowth of a lush semi-tropical forest.

The air, thick with humidity, is cleaner than anything I've ever breathed back home.

The sickly pink rays from the waning sun hang high in the sky, casting dappled shadows through the dense canopy overhead.

A lush welcome.

Not a terrible place to wake up in, but even I, placid as my brood-draks have countlessly accused me of being, know not to trust the universe to grant me such a thing as fair providence.

When your last conscious memory is being knocked out by gas via an aerial vehicle, anything fair seems well out of reach and a fool's hope.

This was no accident.

The genali scum has shipped me off-world, most likely to one of their notorious hunting grounds. It's the only explanation for why someone isn't sniffing my dried and ground up cartilage so they can stiffen in places their extravagant lifestyles have left hopelessly soft.

I suppose a hunting ground is the better option.

I've heard of such places in passing from off-worlders. Entire planets terraformed. Or left as they were, entirely dedicated to the commercial hunting of exotic, but lethal creatures.

The bloodier, the better.

Apparently, the mucus bugs decided it was about time a drakonid made his debut.

A low growl rumbles out of my chest, a visceral concoction of anger and an affront so deep it stings sharper than the anger of being captured and shipped off to be hunted against your will.

Hunting me? A Maj'Ra?

A sick amusement flickers in the back of my mind, re-routing my momentary rage.

Jests of being sub-manticorids are common when discussing drakonids in the intergalactic scene, but that's as far as it ever went.

Jokes that remained jokes, because the few who have lived through conflict with a drak know, servitor race or not, there are very few things in the universe as terrifying as facing down a murderous Maj'Ra.

Is genali memory so short? Are there no logicians among them?

I snort, pushing the more complex thought threads I tend to weave in my head aside in favor of the cruder, more basic part of my brain that is my primal instinct.

An intuition that is currently seething at me to avenge this insult by finding and killing the inferior genetic wastes of space that dared think that they could hunt an apex predator.

For daring to think I am their prey.

A sharp prickle at the back of my neck, the kind refined by years of combat, snaps me out of my reverie. I instantly recognize its pungent, sickly-sweet nature.

Genali. Two of them, their grotesque pink forms obscured by the dense foliage a little ways off. The stench of their slime is unmistakable.

Though mixed in is something caustic and unidentified.

It isn't enough to engage my risk aversion.

A roar erupts from my throat at the divinely given opportunity and, sure enough, they spin around, startled, their amorphous frames warbling in surprise.

Before they can react, I am on them.

Gone is the cautious warrior, replaced by a blur of rage and vengeance.

I use my speed to my advantage, propelled forward by the burst of power from immediately going down on all fours and launching at them.

The one in the lead lets out a shrill shriek that pierces the air. It raises a gauntlet-clad hand, intending to swipe at me, but I'm already past it. My claws are out and before the foul thing can properly vocalize its horror, I am already looming over it.

With a single powerful slash, I cleave through the genali's torso.

The creature melts into a puddle of gray slime with an ear-splitting hissing wail. The second genali, smaller and nimbler, dodges my initial attack. It launches itself backward, spraying a thick glob of acidic slime from its mouth.

I twist my body just enough to avoid a full hit, but the corrosive slime hisses briefly as it injures my skin in an acidic cascade.

It burns for a moment, then the sting fades.

With enough exposure, I'll develop an immunity, but for now, it's best to avoid it.

I watch it slide off my tough, slowly healing hide. It bubbles along with harsh hisses that let out acrid smoke on contact with the lush plants.

The stench burns my nostrils, sending my head rearing back as I let out a cough to expel it.

I would happily never smell it again, but unfortunately my immunity doesn't extend to olfactory attacks.

I wasn't aware that there was a class of genali that could spit acid.

Are the insects playing with their own genetics now? Not just their hapless slaves?

The second genali lunges at me, its limbs flailing wildly. I meet its attack head-on, my arms a blur as I deflect its blades. The creature is surprisingly strong for its size, and its movements are erratic and unpredictable.

Usually, a fight with a genali is a straightforward matter of getting close enough and crushing them.

This is a chaotic dance, a constant struggle to avoid its acidic attacks.

A surge of hormones course through me, momentarily masking the ache in my muscles from the earlier genali poison.

The ache makes me realize my error. The green smoke from my capture was poisonous, and I should have taken the time to rest.

When you're death-resistant, such things become afterthoughts.

Unsure of what other surprises to expect, I realize I can't afford to drag this out. I need to take this creature down quickly and find a way off this perverse planet.

Images of my fellow Maj'Ras, their bodies strewn across the mock battlefield, fuel my rage.

Of course, before I head anywhere, I wouldn't deny myself the pleasure of making whatever genali in my path scream for the sins of their species.

With a renewed ferocity, I press my attack.

He might have poison, but I have agility and strength gained from years of brutal fighting.

I disarm the creature, sending the offending slimy appendages flying through the air to land in wet thuds. Before it can recover, I land a devastating blow to its chest cavity, then latch on.

Twisting and turning, I chortle at the struggling insect before I begin to squeeze. The old clan-taught grip designed to crush bones the elders drilled into me years ago comes into play.

I am in no mood to play the merciful drak.

Unlike the first genali, this one doesn't melt into the usual puddle.

Its body palpitates erratically on its way down. It convulses violently for several long moments before it makes one last weak twitch before ultimately going limp.

With a dissatisfied huff, I stand over the fallen creature, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the cloying stench of slime in the air.

The thrill of victory is muted by the spirit-chaffing combination of the irritating sensation of my un-assuaged rage and the grim reality of my situation.

I'm stranded on an alien planet, surrounded by hostile creatures, with no way of contacting my clan.

Nothing I can't handle, but not something I would have chosen. All of this for entertainment?

It's senseless.

I take the time to wrest a blade from the detached arms. It wasn't made for my four opposing digits with their thick claws.

I can hold it, but it shifts around wildly on the thick pads of my hands.

Useless.

I fling it hard enough to make a loud thwack as it embeds into a tree far above my head. A moment later, two more join it, all waving around wildly in a neat row.

Another surge of white-hot rage threatens to make me see blue once more, but before I can let it loose, something catches my eye.

Half-buried in the undergrowth, a glint of metal shows through the dense foliage. Curiosity piqued, I kneel and brush away the surrounding dirt.