Fall

by Scarlett Dawn

  Jax saw me coming, and he fought his way to me. His own grace rivalled my own. This, right here, was one of the reasons why we had never dropped out of the government program. We were excellent at fighting beside each other, and we knew it. He motioned that there was an attacker behind me as I ran straight at him. Moving with ease, he bent with his hands lowered. More than used to this, I kept running and placed my right foot onto his hands and allowed him to throw me up and backward.

  I heard the roar of the audience falter as I soared up and threw the air, arching my back and twisting. I landed directly on top of the advancing Mian’s shoulders, my legs spread on either side of his head, and sliced clean through his neck. I ignored how the roar of the crowd erupted into shouts of wrath as blood spewed from the Mian’s throat, instead focusing on how he fell forward.

  Jax caught my arm, steadied me, and grabbed the downed Mian’s sword.

  With much annoyance, he tossed away one of the useless blades he had been ‘gifted’.

  We fought together as one, even as more Mian warriors blazed down from the bleachers. They wanted to eradicate the Humans in their midst. Those fifteen minutes were the longest of my life. I had never fought so hard against a foe who was superior on all levels of strength and speed. It took everything Jax and I had to remain standing and alive. But the halo-clock counted down its final tick, an alarm shrieking through the air that the fight was done.

  I still did not lower my weapons. Neither did Jax.

  Until they were taken from us when we were led away through the gore of the dead.

  Sitting on the floor inside a room of the coliseum with the surviving forty-one Human men, I braced my elbows on my knees and tried to regulate my breathing. My body was completely spent. I was exhausted beyond belief. My muscles twitched and burned from overuse. But I knew my oxygen was getting low. There was only a half-hour left until the oxygen would run out. The Mian needed to get these helmets the hell off us, but instead, they had kept us waiting for ten grueling minutes of silence. During training on Joyal, none of us had ever followed through with a malicious blow, much less killed someone before. Our thoughts were lost in the chaos of survival here.

  There was a noise outside the grey sterile room we sat in, and all heads lifted in that direction.

  It sounded like masculine deep timbers arguing past the thick metal door.

  Another minute passed before a Mian man, the first litigator I had encountered after my name had been called on Joyal, opened the door. He surveyed us silently, half standing inside the room. His eyes narrowed as they traveled over us before he barked, “The female. The one who disobeyed orders. Get out here now.”

  My shoulders tensed, but I quietly stood to my feet. I tried not to grimace as I traipsed dirt and dried blood across the tiling from my boots. I glanced once at Jax when he started to stand, and I silently shook my head. I would face whatever punishment was given. He was still alive and I was grateful.

  “Sit down,” the Mian delegate growled, staring beyond me at Jax. He paused a moment, and then grabbed my elbow, still watching over my head. “She won’t be harmed, so cease your aggression.”

  I was not sure if I completely trusted his word as he slammed and locked the metal door behind us. He continued with his unrelenting, bruising hold, jerking me down the long hallway. Just when I was really beginning to worry as he marched us down twisting and gradually darkening hallways, he stopped before a frosted glass door, opened it, and shoved me inside. I stared at the door when he slammed it right in my face, not entering with me.

  “Hey,” I shouted. I lifted a hand and tried opening the door, but it would not budge. “What are-”

  A throat cleared behind me.

  I froze.

  Then, ever so carefully, I turned. I did not move from that position.

  I could not.

  No, I just stared.

  The charcoal grey room was small. It was only lit by two lamps on the left and the right walls. A marble round table sat in the middle with four black chairs around it. There was also a black couch against the far wall, facing the entrance to the room.

  Four Mian were inside the room with me.

  I had never seen four men who were quite so frightening.

  They were actually gorgeous, but their eyes…

  There was a cold remoteness about their glowing gazes that kept me rooted where I stood.

  These four men were something…other.

  Two were on the left side, with one sitting on the table with one of his legs lazily swinging, while the other sat relaxed on his chair with his legs spread. The one on the table had the most beautiful golden hair I had ever seen, the color not natural for a Human. His gaze was a darker shade of his hair, a brutal gold. The man on the chair, his hair color was rich black, the same shade as my own, but where my eyes did not glow and were chocolate brown, his were piercing silver. Both had a deep bronze complexion and wore the tattooed mark of the west near their left eye.

  The other two were farther into the reaches of the room. In contrast to the other two Mian being night and day in coloring, these two both had brilliant white hair. One wore it long, almost down to his waist, while the other wore it in indescribable choppy lengths to his shoulders. The one leaning nonchalantly against the wall had black as midnight eyes and the one perched on the arm of the couch had crystal blue eyes. Both bore the tattooed mark of the east near their right eye.

  It was odd, but I could tell these two groups of men were Vaq pairs. They seemed naturally at ease with the proximity of each other’s closeness. I only wished they did not radiate so much menace that I now wished I had used the restroom before changing into my space attire.

  The one with the long white hair asked in a deep, resonating voice, “Do you know who we are, Human?”

  “No,” I stated respectfully, making sure I spoke the correct words of their language. “I do not.”

  The one with the golden hair brushed a stray strand aside, stating in a bored tone, “We are the Pluma of the east and the west.” They were the leaders of the Mian. He pointed vaguely to himself. “I’m Pluma Leo Kreob.” He gestured to the black haired man next to him. “This is Pluma Malik Wazra.” He flicked his wrist in an annoyed gesture to the long white haired man, and then the choppy white haired man. “That is Pluma Phila Moir and Pluma Killeg Creo.”

  I blinked…and tried not to piss my spacesuit. “It’s lovely to meet the four of you.”

  Pluma Kreob’s lips twitched, but he continued casually, “Why did you disobey?”

  I could lie. I could say the orders had not been clear. Though I did not think that was what would keep me alive with these four men. “I am more than trained for combat.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I also didn’t want my friend to die.”

  “Ah, yes,” Pluma Creo spoke from the couch. He flipped through a halo-pad, then stated, “Number 43. Jax Waterston.” He punched the halo-pad off, not missing how I had tensed. “Yes, we do know a little about the male slaves who fought. But you,” he leaned forward, “we know nothing of, since you are female.”

  I stayed quiet. He had not asked a question, so I was not going to babble.

  Pluma Wazra chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the air. “How many marks do you wear on your wrists?”

  I swallowed, but told the truth. “All ten.”

  The four men seemed to find this interesting, each eyeing me a little closer.

  The same Pluma spoke. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Their shock was palpable, even though the four men’s expressions did not change.

  “And your…friend, how old is he? How many marks does he have?”

  “Jax is the same age as me. He also has all ten.”

  “And yet you still believed you needed to help him?”

  “I did.” I scratched my shoulder, feeling uncomfortable under their regard. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if he had died like that.” I snapped my mouth shut,
but it was too late.

  Pluma Kreob cocked his head, his golden hair brushing over his shoulder. I tried not to gaze at the pointed top of his ear I could now see. His quiet and sinister tone sent a small quake down my frame. “Do you think the arrival ritual was cruel?”

  I did not answer. There was no safe response for that question. I did however clear my throat, knowing my oxygen was becoming dangerously low. “Will one of you please remove my helmet?”

  With dark as ebony hair gliding over his shoulders, Pluma Wazra rested his elbows on his knees, asking gently, “First, what is your name?”

  “Braita Valorn.” I pointed at my helmet, peering at each of them. I tried to be respectful, but anxiety was etching up my spine. “Please? The helmet.”

  Pluma Moir grunted, and then moved forward. As he stalked toward me, he pulled his long white hair back into a ponytail, fully exposing the pointed tops of his ears. He bent, placing his bronzed face in front of mine.

  My breath caught. With him so close, his eyes were hypnotic in their very darkness.

  I wanted to lean forward just to see them better, not sure if I had ever witnessed a vision so delicate, yet punishing. His eyes held a ruthlessness that alarmed me, but it was a view I could stare at for days. I was not sure if even an advanced halo-image would do his eyes justice. There were just too many mixing complexities hiding within the glimmer of his ominous scrutiny to be duplicated.

  That gaze raked up and down my frame ever so slowly. When he finally spoke, his tone made my heart beat in a wild cadence. “What you did today was foolish.” His glowing eyes narrowed, but he raised his left hand and pressed his thumb to the side of my helmet.

  Instantly, it released with a loud pop to my ears. I sucked in the clean oxygen that raced underneath the edge of the helmet, my lungs heaving in great gulps, no longer having to regulate my breathing for fear of death. “Thank you.”

  But, I stumbled to the side. I grabbed my helmet and jerked it off, suddenly feeling dizzy as the Cold Mark on the back of my neck began to itch. I dropped my helmet as the room grew silent, and clutched my forehead as my hair fanned down around my face. Instinct had me grab the nearest sturdy structure to regain my balance, and that ended up being the shirt sleeve of Pluma Moir. I instantly jerked my hand away, slurring, “Sorry…sorry.” I slammed back against the glass door, and used the heel of my palm to thump my forehead a few times. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Please give me a second.”

  There was a pause, then Pluma Moir mumbled, “Did the Human just call me a…’cow’?”

  Mother Joyal, how did I keep doing that?

  “No,” I grumbled, shaking my head again. I scratched the Cold Mark where I could feel it branded my skin, the black barcode there slightly raised on my flesh. “I didn’t.”

  The room went completely silent as I continued to scratch the possibly infected mark.

  “Oh, my.” Pluma Moir chuckled softly. “That…is interesting.”

  My fingers stalled in mid-scratch and I blinked a few times as I lifted my head, trying to focus on the deadly Mian inside this room. What I saw froze me in place, my vision not settling.

  All four men were also staring directly at me. Where my hand rested on the Cold Mark.

  Pluma Moir lifted a white brow, and stepped closer. His right hand rose, which sported three black rings between his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers. Surprised, my head thumped back against the door when I tried to evade his touch, but his hand moved in an action my eyes could not register. His thumb brushed my cheek in a gentle, almost affectionate, stroke.

  I flinched at the coldness of his skin.

  Just as swiftly, he retracted his hand. With his immense muscled frame now blocking my view from the rest of the room’s occupants, his shining, black gaze continued to roam my face in the hushed silence, appearing to be assessing each of my features in slow turn. His sophisticated facade was so void of any emotion that there was no way to determine his thoughts.

  But even in my sickness, I was lost in his gaze. My vision was still blurred, though it did not matter. I could not peer away from his intricate eyes. Just as his body tensed to step away, I beseeched on the faintest breath, “Wait.”

  Bizarrely, he paused at my nearly inaudible order.

  His frame relaxed in a smooth change, as if he had not been about to move.

  Ever so casually, he lifted a perfectly sculpted, white brow in silent question.

  My lips thinned. I did not explain. I was not sure if I understood it myself.

  Pluma Moir did not appear bothered that I did not respond. Instead, his gaze ran over my features once more…and then lower. The assessment felt more personal in nature than a cold evaluation of my physical wellbeing, making me wonder why he was studying my physique with the intensity that he was. He cleared his throat as his gaze met mine again, and I did not try to evade his touch as he lifted his right hand for a second time.

  Once more, his thumb brushed gently against my cheek. His touch was not frigid this time; it was normal warmth. But he grunted softly, and lowered his hand in an unhurried movement.

  Pluma Moir ultimately pulled his unique gaze away from mine. He glanced back at Pluma Creo, who was watching him with mild trepidation. Pluma Moir cracked his knuckles, and then snorted…right before he laughed outright, his head even falling back with his booming glee. “She’s not ours, thank the Gods. Our Harem would have been breakneck violent.” Even as he continued laughing his butt off, I noticed he took three large steps away from me, back toward Pluma Creo. Not glancing in my direction again, he waggled a finger at me, and then spoke to Pluma Kreob and Pluma Wazra, “Good luck with that.”

  Pluma Kreob’s enormous form was tense where he sat on the table, his legs no longer swinging in relaxation. He sat as if he were frozen in place, merely blinking at a spot above my head. His mouth barely moved when he choked, “Malik, please go check her.”

  My head cocked, the room reeling with that tiny movement. Butterflies spun in sadistic fury inside my stomach. I burped quietly, and quickly put a hand to my mouth. “I think I might be sick.” I had no clue what the hell was going on with these Plumas, but I knew I could not take much more of this. “Is there a trashcan around here?”

  Pluma Kreob mumbled, “And figure out why the hell she keeps saying ‘cow’.”

  Oh…whatever.

  I peered left, and then the right searching for a trashcan.

  “Gentlemen, she looks vaguely ill.” Pluma Creo grinned from ear-to-ear, appearing mighty pleased with my predicament. “Perhaps ‘cow’ means ‘toilet’ in her language.”

  Pluma Wazra grumbled, “Fucking hell, this cannot be happening.” He jerked from his seat, his silver, glowing eyes dead set on mine as he prowled in my direction.

  A small, frightened noise that completely embarrassed me floated past my parted lips. This Mian was even taller than I had guessed him to be, well over a foot taller than the top of my head. He was not as tall as the jerk litigator I had first seen, but where that Mian had been skinny, this Pluma was all hard corded muscles. I groped for the door handle, wanting to get as far away from him as possible with that killer expression he wore while he watched me fumble for an outlet of escape.

  I squealed when he was suddenly gone from my vision…then plastered up against the front of my body, smashing me against the frosted glass. I snapped my mouth shut against the sign of fear, and ground my molars against each other. I would not show any more weakness.

  With his weight crushing my smaller frame, he lifted his left hand.

  I readied myself against the bite of coldness I knew would come, like all the Mian’s unwanted touches so far. It was a definite peculiar reaction, but still one nonetheless. Fisting my hands, I held perfectly still.

  With the easiest of brushes, he gently caressed my check with the pad of his thumb.

  He went frigid against me.

  I blinked in surprise.

  His finger was not cold. It was warm and soothing.
I felt it all the way deep into my bones.

  A contented sigh that I could not stop escaped as my body went languid against him. All of my nausea was gone in the blink of an eye. The horrible itch of my Cold Mark was a fleeting memory. When the pad of his thumb turned slightly, never leaving my flesh, just altering his hand so he could cup my cheek with his large warm palm, I did not even flinch at the foreign touch. Instead, my head sank against his heated skin, burrowing deeper against it, like a kitten wanting to be pet.

  There was a radiant light coming from underneath Pluma Wazra’s black shirt, but I barely noticed it as I lifted my arms. He automatically bent for me, and I placed my arms around his neck and began climbing up him until I was wrapped tight around him with legs around his waist. The quiet purr that I heard from deep within his throat was in pure cadence to the harmony that wove itself through my entire being, shattering deep into my soul. Still gently cupping my cheek, he wound his other muscled arm around my waist and held me close while nuzzling his face against the side of my neck, deeply breathing me in.

  Through the blissful haze, I heard Pluma Kreob growl at the other Plumas, “Touch him and you’re dead.” The table in the middle of the room sounded like it was knocked over. His tone was full of contrived politeness. “With much respect, you two need to get the fuck out.” Then his voice was closer in the fog of my mind, whispering gently against Pluma Wazra’s ear, “Malik, you need to move away from the door.”

  Pluma Wazra growled quietly, but glided over like he was moving on air.

  The door, so difficult to open before, released. It clicked shut as the Pluma’s Moir and Creo left.