Page 3 of Wrecked By My Alien Mentor

CHAPTER 2

ORION

The crisp evening air bites at my face as I stride out of Orion Plaza, the towering glass fortress gleaming under the city lights. My reflection in the polished doors stretches to an absurd length, a deliberate illusion of a man I’m not, but I don’t mind. The limo idles at the curb, my driver standing at attention, ready to open the door. I take one step toward it when the sound of sneakers slapping concrete interrupts the quiet hum of the city.

“Hands up, Weller.” The voice is gruff, muffled by a black ski mask. A gun gleams in the dim light, pointed directly at my head. Behind him, another masked figure steps into view, gripping a second pistol. “Get in the van. Now.”

I glance over my shoulder. A black van’s side door slides open, revealing three more figures, their faces obscured, their postures tense. My lips twitch. Amateur hour. The guns are cheap, the grip on them too tight, the way they shift their weight too uncertain. I could dismantle them in seconds if I wanted to.

But where’s the fun in that?

“I’ll do what you want,” I say, my voice smooth, calm, like I’m ordering coffee. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

The two in front exchange a glance, their confusion palpable even through the masks. One jerks the gun toward the van. “Move.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender and stride toward the van, the kidnappers scrambling to keep up with my long gait. Inside, the three waiting men tense as I duck into the cramped space. One of them fumbles with a pair of handcuffs, the metal clinking as he steps toward me.

“Put these on.”

I extend my wrists, narrowly suppressing a laugh as he freezes, realizing the cuffs won’t even come close to fitting. His eyes flicker up to mine, uncertainty flashing behind the mask. “Uh…”

“Problem?” I ask, leaning back against the van’s wall, my tone light. The van lurches forward, the engine growling as it peels away from the curb.

The man with the cuffs steps back, muttering something under his breath. The others shift uneasily, their eyes darting between me and each other.

“Can we stop at Imo’s Pizza?” I ask, breaking the tense silence. “I’m peckish for a Canadian bacon extra large.”

One of the kidnappers lets out a nervous laugh, quickly stifled by a sharp elbow to the ribs. The others just stare at me, their confusion deepening.

I lean back, crossing my arms, and smile. This might just be the most entertaining thing I’ve done all week.

“Search him,” one of the thugs barks, the mask muffling his voice but not the edge of panic creeping into it. “Get his phone.”

The guy closest to me—skinny, reeking of cheap cologne—steps forward with the confidence of a man who’s watched too many action movies. His hands paw at my pockets, fingers clumsy and damp with sweat. I don’t move. He finds thesilver pen—my image inducer—and yanks it out like he’s just uncovered the crown jewels.

“I wouldn’t mess with that if I were you,” I say, my voice low, calm, like I’m commenting on the weather.

He sneers, holding it up like a trophy. “What are you gonna do to stop me?”

His thumb flicks the pen’s button. The hologram flickers, then dissolves, and the van suddenly feels a lot smaller. I see the moment it hits them—their eyes widen, their grip on their weapons tightens, and the air turns thick with terror. Seven feet of red-scaled Vakutan warrior doesn’t exactly fit the aesthetic of their cheap suits and ski masks.

“I warned you,” I say, my voice now a low growl, the kind that vibrates through your bones.

One of them, the one with the shaky hands, pulls the trigger. The bullet hits me square in the face. It stings, but it’s like getting flicked in the forehead by a toddler. I blink, my scales barely registering the impact, and tilt my head. “That’s it?”

The van erupts into chaos. I grab the closest guy by the collar and slam him into the van’s ceiling, the metal denting under the force. Another tries to swing at me with the butt of his gun. I catch his wrist, twist, and hear the satisfying pop of bone before tossing him into the third thug like a bowling ball. The last one scrambles for the sliding door, but I yank him back by his belt, his legs flailing uselessly as I hurl him into the pile.

The driver—smartest of the bunch—takes one look in the rearview mirror and bails. The van swerves, the wheel spinning wildly as he jumps out into the street. I lean forward, my massive frame barely squeezing through the gap, and grab the wheel. The van groans as I guide it to the side of the road, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

Silence settles, broken only by the groans of the thugs crumpled in the back. I glance at the pen, now lying on thefloor, and pick it up, flicking it back on. The hologram wraps around me, turning me back into the illusion of Orion Weller. I straighten my tie, step out of the van, and dust myself off.

“Next time I say I want a pizza,” I mutter to the groaning pile of idiots, “then get me a fucking pizza!”

I kick the van for good measure, flipping it onto its side with a metallic groan. The thugs inside groan louder, but I’m already walking away. Let them explain to the police how a seven-foot monster trashed their plan. No one’s going to believe them anyway.

My limo pulls up moments later, the driver giving the overturned van a sideways glance but saying nothing. I slide into the backseat, plucking a bit of debris from my suit. Orion Weller, corporate titan, wouldn’t be caught dead with van shrapnel on his tailored lapels. The image inducer hums softly, restoring the illusion of my human form.

I check my Compad for missed messages. There’s one from Robi. Of course there’s one from Robi. I groan, leaning back against the leather seat. Him and Pyke have been on my case for months about mentoring some human intern. Apparently, this one’s a “prodigy with potential.” Yeah, sure. I’ve heard that line before.

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