Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 55551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
To say that the rest of the bar’s patrons are startled by the appearance of the Chaos Fish and the piece by piece disappearance of their erstwhile companion is an understatement. I don’t think anybody here is used to being afraid, which I can understand. They’re getting a solid dose of it now though, all together, all at once. Very bonding, I imagine.
The Chaos Fish smells fresh food in the aftermath of its snack, and boy, it is hungry. Being dehydrated and shrunk down to the size of a cracker for god knows how long has really worked up its appetite.
The saurians start leaping out windows and pouring out doors. The Chaos Fish, sensing its prey fleeing, takes immediate action. It tries to get out of the windows but finds itself to be several times too large to fit through. This doesn’t bother it, because it neither understands nor begins to care. It simply goes all the way through, crashing through the wood wall as if it isn’t there in slow, lumbering, terrifying pursuit of its prey.
“I have more of those,” I inform those who have not fled the bar in horror. “So I think you should all leave me alone.”
This gets rid of the stragglers and leaves me in command of what’s left of the place. This means I’ve taken care of the immediate needs of food, water, and shelter. I’m doing pretty damn good right about now.
I get up, go behind the bar, and start looking for snacks. They’ve got to have something besides bloody meat here. There’s got to be some kind of local bread or… here we go. I find a whole box of packet foods that when opened reveal what look to me a lot like potato chips. It’s possible they’ll be toxic for someone with my physiology, so I am careful, putting one to the tip of my tongue first to check.
“Mmm. Salt and vinegar. Perfect.”
2 ALPHA’S CLAIM
Thorn
“Alpha Thorn?”
“Yes, Sona?”
My faithful servant appears on the rooftop behind me with an ever-so-gentle reproachful expression on his face. You might think he doesn’t approve of me, and you could be right. I have been Alpha of the Primal Wilds for approximately one year, and the very roof where we now stand still bears stains from the blood of the previous alpha.
Saurian society does not tolerate weakness. I have earned my place here, and well he knows it. Though he may respect me, I can be almost entirely certain he does not yet like me. Yet he requires my favor to ensure his survival. It is a dynamic of almost constant, inescapably polite tension.
Grave City is at my feet, a thriving saurian metropolis of a million souls. I like to stand up here to get a sense of the place, and all those who live in it. I’ll never know them all individually, but I’m responsible for the wellbeing of all of them.
So far, it has been a lot of paperwork and meetings. All the things a creature of my temperament finds almost unbearable. I fought my way through the ranks to become alpha. Now the fights are over. The position is settled. All I have to do is the job — at least until a challenger appears.
The challengers have been quiet of late, though, and I am bored. Whatever Sona wants on this sunny afternoon is probably another matter of bureaucracy.
“One of your alarms has been ringing for several minutes, sir. I believe it indicates some unrest somewhere in the territory. Whatever it means, it has become quite intolerable, as the constant…”
An alert! That means something serious, like a territory incursion, a violent event, or the rising of a challenger for the position of alpha. I feel my body charging with excitement at the prospect of action for the first time in many weeks.
Sure enough, my office is alive with the siren call of distress. I take note of the location, then rush for the garage, where my faithful steed is waiting patiently. Practically every saurian male with any self respect whatsoever rides a motorbike. Raw power between the thighs, nothing between oneself and the world at large. My bike is a custom-made beast, not subject to the regulations on others. It gleams in black and silver with the exception of the cover plates which protect the engine, made in the image of my own scale markings so that when I ride it, it looks like it feels — part of me.
“Are you going to deactivate…”
The last words I hear from my major-domo, before the rumble of the engine becomes the only thing I can hear, are slightly mournful. He’ll work out how to turn the alarms off at some point, I’m sure. In the meantime, I have trouble to stop, trouble more significant than the sensibilities of my stuffy butler.