Page 238 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I grimace. Big Belly. Surfer Bro could get... messy. A shiver runs through me—I always hated surfer types—salty hobos who drink too much.
I pivot left, stomping down the corridor like an angry She-Hulk on a sugar crash. It’s so awkward, towering over the Nibs like I’m an elephant that’s escaped the zoo. They sashay around me with dramatic little pouts, like I’m some cosmic black hole sucking the vibes out of their precious ship.
Bunch of blueberry heads.
I bury my face in the glowing console like a partially blind kid using a broken compass to find buried treasure. Part distraction. Part necessity. Because—tiny hiccup—I’m alreadyslightlylost.
Not my fault. It’s this ship—theImperator’s Knuckles.Pompous name they give it. Butridiculously massive—basically a floating Louvre, a Michelin-starred restaurant, and death-rays stapled together by a drunk architect.
Two towering Robo-Nibs stand sentry beside a door ahead. Their sleek purple heads track my movement like vengeful stone gargoyles. I can almost smell the smugness wafting from the Smurf pilots inside.
A shiver prickles down my spine. I reach out instinctively for the warm buzz of Dracoth’s bond—the comforting Mr. Frowny Face murder bond juice. Nothing. Nada.
Left me dying of thirst in a desert, sandals full of sand, dry mouth cracking.
Plaugh. Typical.
So busy wallowing in my romantic abandonment, I almost miss it—a flashingblinky bonkon the wrist console.
Oh! I’m here!
I grimace harder when I realize where here is. The door I just passed. The one flanked by the two looming Robo-Smurf Terminators.
Really? Of course it is. Because why not?
Slowly—like a sneaky little mole—Molexie—I creep toward the door, channeling the energy of a teenager trying to fake their way into a nightclub with a borrowed ID.
The Robo-Nibs’ sleek heads swivel to track me, their gears whirring ominously.
What if they stop me?
My brilliant plans are evaporating faster than my bank balance.
I swallow the boulder lodged in my throat. But the Robo-Nibs don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand there like creepy purple murder toys someone forgot to wind up.
“Uh... I just...” I stammer, my voice shooting up two octaves, “have an appointment with Big Chief Big Belly. I mean—an appointment for my sore belly.” I giggle. Like a toddler who’s just chugged six Red Bulls and licked a light socket.
Stop talking, Lexie!
Still nothing.
“So...” I drawl, shuffling between their cold metal frames in a sideways Limbo dance. “I’ll just be on my... way.”
I squeeze through the gap like the last desperate glob of toothpaste—extra minty, extra awkward.
How random.
Breathless, I brace myself for the stomach-churning shimmer of the holographic door ahead. At least it means Big Belly must be inside.
The door ripples like living water as I step through—and find myself in another standard-issue blueberry lair. Polished, boring, painfully identical to every other chamber on this ship.
Except for one important, glorious difference. In the center, looking like someone tried to balance a grizzly bear on a child’s tea set, sits Big Chief Big Belly.
My heart thuds—half excitement, half sheer pants-wetting terror. This is it. My shot. My big play. No screwing this up, Lexie.
He sits cross-legged, eyes closed like a big hairy Buddha. Well, if Buddha was a living bipedal death machine. His battle-worn white armor rises and flows in a deep, steady wind-tunnel rhythm.
I recognize what he’s doing instantly. Use it myself like Elder Ignixis taught me. My own fragile, secret place of stillness, where I search for Divine Mother and Father.
