Page 49 of Naga's Mate

When Nezzar takes the platform, his commanding presence draws all attention. The perfect distraction for someone with more sinister intentions. I scan the nearest exits, cataloging potential escape routes while trying to appear normal—just another pregnant omega watching her alpha with appropriate admiration.

My enhanced senses detect a shift in one infiltrator's biochemistry—adrenaline spike, cortisol flood, respiratory acceleration. They're moving to position. About to act.

As Nezzar concludes his theoretical overview and gestures for me to join him, I feel it—the subtle disruption in air currents as someone moves purposefully behind the presentation area. My hand slides into the specialized pocket of my formal attire, fingers closing around the small molecular scanner I brought for demonstration purposes. Not designed as a weapon, but solid enough to cause damage if necessary.

"And now, Researcher Wilson will present the practical application of these protocols," Nezzar announces, his eyes meeting mine with a subtle warning. He's detected something too.

I rise to approach the platform, hyperaware of my vulnerable state. Seven months pregnant, moving slower than normal, an obvious target. The crowd's focus narrows to me—the human omega who's achieved unprecedented integration with naga biology. The visible evidence of successful hybrid development making me both scientific curiosity and ideological abomination, depending on perspective.

Just before reaching the platform, I detect the infiltrator's movement—a figure emerging from behind a decorative column, hand reaching into a concealed pocket. Even with my enhanced senses, I barely register the weapon before it's aimed in my direction—not a gun but a specialized injection device, the kind designed for remote administration of chemical compounds.

In the split second before they fire, my enhanced vision detects the molecular composition of the loaded syringe—a compound I recognize immediately from my research. Specialized abortifacient designed to target hybrid cellular structures while leaving normal human tissue intact. The resistance has weaponized my own earlier work against me.

Time crystallizes into perfect clarity. I duck sideways as the projectile fires, feeling it whistle past my ear close enough to disturb my hair. Momentum carries me forward into a controlled stumble that looks like pregnancy clumsiness but positions me directly beside a display table holding various laboratory equipment.

The infiltrator recalibrates, preparing for a second shot. Security hasn't reached them yet—too many bodies in the way, too much careful positioning by the operative.

My hand closes around a glass beaker from the display. Without conscious decision, I hurl it with precision that surprises even me, my enhanced musculature compensating for my altered center of gravity. The heavy glass connects with the operative's temple with sickening force, sending them crashing to the floor as the injection device skitters across polished stone.

Chaos erupts in the auditorium—nagas reacting to the sudden violence, security converging from multiple directions, the other infiltrators breaking cover to escape. Through the confusion, a second operative charges directly toward me, face contorted with fanatic determination, another injection device already raised.

This time, there's no convenient weapon within reach. Just me, my unborn child, and the knowledge that the syringe contains compound specifically designed to destroy everything we've created.

Something primal and protective rises within me—not omega submission but predatory defense. The scale patterns across my abdomen pulse with sudden intensity, sending unprecedented strength flowing through my limbs. I pivot sideways, using my altered center of gravity to generate momentum, and drive my elbow directly into the attacker's throat with crushing force.

The sound of cartilage collapsing is both horrifying and deeply satisfying.

The operative crumples, injection device clattering to the floor unfired. I kick it away with scientific precision, sending it sliding toward approaching security personnel who now swarm the area like disciplined hornets.

It's over in seconds—the third infiltrator captured near an exit, the other two subdued where they fell. One dead by my hand, one choking on a crushed windpipe, neither receiving any sympathy from the coldly efficient part of me that's already cataloging the chemical composition of their weapons for future defense protocols.

Nezzar reaches me moments later, his massive form creating protective perimeter, coils sliding into defensive configuration around me. But the threat has passed. I'm still standing, one hand resting protectively over the pronounced swell of my abdomen where our child continues developing, blissfully unaware of how close it came to being terminated.

"You're injured," he notes, detecting microscopic splatter of blood across my face—not mine but the operative's.

"I'm fine." My voice sounds strange to my own ears—calm, controlled, nothing like someone who just killed a human being to protect a half-naga child. "They would have destroyed everything we've built."

The simplicity of the statement belies its profound implications. Not just the pregnancy, not just the research, but the evolving reality of what exists between us now—something that transcends mere biological imperative or conquest claiming. Something I've chosen to protect with lethal force when necessary.

Around us, security personnel efficiently remove the fallen operatives. Elder Xylem approaches, her ancient eyes assessing me with new calculation. "You defended not only yourself but naga offspring with remarkable effectiveness," she observes, formal speech patterns making the statement sound like ceremonial proclamation. "Most unexpected for a claimed omega."

"I'm full of surprises," I respond, the sarcasm automatic even in the aftermath of violence. "Besides, seven months of carrying this child gives me certain proprietary feelings about keeping it alive."

A ripple of what might be amusement shifts across her faded scales. "Indeed." Her gaze moves to the scale patterns visible at my throat and wrists, pulsing with fading adrenaline response. "Perhaps our categories require... reconsideration."

As Nezzar guides me from the auditorium toward medical assessment, whispers follow us—not condemnation but something closer to respect. For nagas, my actions represent perfect biological logic: protecting offspring at any cost. The fact that I chose to defend a hybrid child against those of my own species only confirms what they already believed—that successful integration represents evolutionary advancement.

What they don't understand, what I barely comprehend myself, is the profound shift my actions represent. I didn't just protect a pregnancy or research. I made a definitive choice between past and future, between human resistance ideology and the complex reality I now inhabit.

"You acted with remarkable efficiency," Nezzar observes as we reach the medical assessment chamber, his coils arranging themselves protectively around me while allowing medical scanners to check for any hidden damage. "Most humans would have been paralyzed by such a situation."

"Most humans aren't carrying scientific miracles while juiced up on naga venom," I counter, deflecting with humor that feels increasingly brittle. "Besides, I've spent months analyzing chemical compounds that could harm hybrid tissue. I recognized the weapon immediately."

His golden eyes study me with unsettling intensity. "Recognition doesn't explain your willingness to eliminate the threat with such... finality."

The statement hangs between us, the unspoken question clear: when did I become someone who would kill to protect what began as forced claiming?

"They targeted our child," I say finally, the simplicity of the statement containing all the complexity of my transformed perspective. "Our research. Our future." The possessive pronoun slips out unconsciously, revealing more than any scientific explanation could.

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