Rescued and Ruined

Chapter 2 - Craize

"If all the Kescan'i were as dour as you, then I'm glad you're the last one."

Fury yanks a snarl from my chest as Gric's words sink into my cranium, his verbal jab too painful to ignore. Already on edge from camping in this abysmal desert with seemingly no end to our waiting, I lash out, burying my knuckles into Gric's solar plexus. Since neither of us wears more than simple clothes and a few weapons, my punch sinks into his abdomen, but the brute merely grunts and smirks at me as he steps backward.

"At least the females don't run from me because I'm hideous."

It's a low blow, but he's earned it. No one smears my ancestors' honor or speaks of the horrors I've seen with such blasé dismissal.

Gric's bright green irises shrink as my words register, the agitation behind his assholery exploding into rage as my dual meaning penetrates his brain.

If anyone is hideous, it's me. After several months of torture at the hands of our arch nemesis, my arms and legs display grotesque scars and my once vibrant flesh now looks dull and worn.

I dodge as the blur of a blue fist nears my face. Waiting until Gric's left punch reaches its full extent, I lunge forward, grasping the brute's forearm with my right hand and dropping my weight.

Lethal as always, he engages the spines lining the inside of his arms, cutting my palms.

I don't let go.

My shoulder hits the sand as I tuck into a roll, wrenching his arm and forcing him to follow. He folds, surprisingly limber for his size, but hits the ground so hard it shakes under me, despite its naturally loose formation.

Our snarls dim as sand clouds around us.

I release him and finish my roll, popping onto my feet and sweeping my foot in a wide arc until it connects with my target.

He grunts, the tip of my boot grazing his shoulder as he rolls sideways, avoiding the worst of my kick.

My memory serves me visions of dead bodies and fragments of Space-Flyers floating in the vacuum of space. I snarl and use my fury to attack, landing a vicious punch to my opponent's chin as he rises to fight. He flies backward, but before his heels leave the ground, he jabs the toe of his boot forward and flicks his long, thin tail, sending agony up my leg as he kicks my shin and lashes my thigh.

The second he hits the ground, I land atop him, my rage driving me to bury my fists into him again and again. He reciprocates, pummeling my sides and face with his fat knuckles.

Neither of us stops, even as crimson splatters the surrounding sand.

Seven months ago, we fought a space fleet of the Intergalactic Science Corps, also known as the ISC, and while they tucked tail and ran, we stared at the aftermath of their cruelty. Alphas, omegas, and betas of many species died that day, and the enemy never spared a look backward to mourn the destruction they caused.

They are the scum of the galaxy.

Long ago, the ISC made scientific discoveries with honor, but they grew too big, too greedy to stay trustworthy. When a chapter of the ISC destroyed my home planet Obiscar and desecrated my people decades ago, I vowed to massacre as many of them as I could.

I did well. For years, my life consisted of nothing but gore and death, much worse than the puny streaks of blood flying from myself and my current foe.

Until one tiny mistake landed me in a torture chamber.

My wrath spikes before my knuckles crack into Gric's unyielding jaw.

Along with a few others, this ruthless alpha aided my escape from the enemy's diabolical hands.

He punches just below my sternum, making my diaphragm seize before he twists his hips, forcing me onto my back as he raises his fist to clock me in the temple. I smirk into his almost neon green eyes, his flamboyant cerulean flesh and massive black horns standing out despite the blazing sun.

Bright orange scaly arms wrap around his torso. Fek's violet irises shoot accusation at me over my assailant's shoulder before he hoists Gric up and tosses him to the side.

Which is not an easy feat, considering the dullard weighs more than even I.

I jump to my feet, flicking the blood off my knuckles and stalking forward, not stopping until the toes of my boots touch Fek's. Invading his space, I snarl in the age-old manner of challenge.

One perfectly symmetrical, scaled eyebrow rises, but nothing else on his body moves. Fek neither backs down nor leans forward.

The tiny squint he gives me highlights the deadly intelligence behind his eyes, but an eager glint in his slit pupils stops my hackles from rising.

"Are you done?"

Although his words hold a bite of disapproval, I don't wrap my bleeding hands around his throat and squeeze.

Gric's behemoth form lifts itself from the swirling sand but doesn't approach.

Smart beast. I would much prefer to choke him on the blood trickling from my palms than have him nearby.

With a mouth as big as his attitude, he pushed too far and found the end of my patience. Yet again, he prods me with his next words.

"He might be capable of another round, Fek, since you're so keen on offering him a break."

Before I pivot my neck to glare at him, Fek steals my attention.

"I didn't interrupt you two to save your sorry ass, Gric."

Every muscle in my body tightens as I prepare for whatever announcement he has.

"We have new orders. Time to gather the team."

The jumbled mass of vicious fury and mourning in my chest straightens in relief.

Of course, Gric beats me to the punch, his ability to say whatever's on his mind lending him speed, if not tact.

"Thank the tits off a tentacle. We've been here forever. Let's go get some real action, before the Kescan'i bites off more than he can chew."

I ignore his blabber and set my toes toward the tent Fek indicates, stalking through the sand. This mission had better be difficult, otherwise even my close friends may be in danger of my wrath.