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It took me a very long time to design the limb they crushed. It was almost better than my real leg. The next iteration will be better still. That is how I work. Each attempt better than the last.
I think while I work at getting some supplies. Sure enough, the wall is a wood-based composite which peels away to reveal clumps of wiring running various things. I don’t know what. I don’t know if they’re important. I guess I’ll find out.
I wonder how it was possible I was caught. I still feel that tingling, uncomfortable sense of betrayal—I just can’t work out from which quarter that betrayal came. I don’t think they caught me fair and square. If the korabi intelligence services had any idea where I was and what I was doing, they would never have let me do any of it. So it was someone who I was trying to help.
“No, don’t be stupid,” I lecture myself as I haul on the wires I’m trying to reclaim for lack of a pair of wire cutters. “Don’t get paranoid.”
I think some of the furniture could be repurposed. I need something strong to make the internal mechanism. Something that approximates bone. The steel of the nearby armchair would do, but I’d need a grinder to get it off, and I doubt Tyvian is going to hand me one of those.
It’s so easy to lose track of time when I’m working. It feels like I’m safe again, or if not safe, at least living my old life. The one I had before the korabi broke my leg and dragged me into the palace.
Gathering is my favorite activity. It soothes me. It gives me a sort of primal satisfaction that nothing else does. Except maybe building. And surveilling and planning. And destroying the korabi. I really love destroying the korabi.
“Ahem.”
Someone clears his throat. Someone big, and large, and with a vested interest in the walls staying on. I’ve been caught. It’s not surprising. I wasn’t really putting any effort into not being caught.
I turn around to face Tyvian, trying to desperately think of a reasonable excuse for what I am doing.
“What are you doing to my cell?”
“Nothing!”
My response would hold more weight if I was not holding onto a fistful of cables I just pulled out of a hole I punched in the wall.
“You should really reinforce your walls,” I continue. “They break, and then bits fall out. I could hurt myself on these. What if I tripped? I’ve only got one leg, you know.”
Tyvian smirks wryly, his handsome korabi features twisted with dry amusement. “You’re more trouble with one leg than most are with two. It doesn’t matter. The king wants to see you.”
That is such a polite way to tell me I’m probably about to die. Krush wants to see me post-orgasm? That’s not good. That’s not good at all. That’s long enough for shame and regret to have set in on his part. I’m used to shame and regret. They are my constant companions. But korabi really don’t like feelings of that nature.
“Are you going to carry me off to the king then, or am I going to get something to help me walk?”
“You will wear these robes,” Tyvian says, handing me a simple white cotton snuggler of a garment. In an even greater show of generosity, crutches are provided. The limp-hop of my motion makes me look even more pathetic than I did when I was being dragged in, so I fancy.
We do not go back to the chaotic throne room. This time we are in a smaller, more private, but equally royally ornate space. You might call it a sitting room, or perhaps a study. Scum don’t have equivalent rooms.
Krush is sitting down in a regal armchair made of some esteemed metal. It is ornate and looks old. Older than all the korabi technology which rules Megaris. It must be from the first shipment, the original landing. How fascinating.
He is lounging in that tall chair, his hair swept to one side, his eyes focused on me with royal disdain. I feel my aching pussy clench at the sight of him. Fresh desire suffuses me. This creature makes me want everything I am not supposed to want.
He is so big. So broad. His muscles seem to have their own muscles. With every little movement he makes, he ripples. His courtly attire has been changed for what I suppose he would consider more casual clothing. All he needs is a vest of finest gold and pants of pristine white fabric, finished with long boots, also gold. He could risk appearing gaudy, if not for the sheer menace rolling off him with every flash of his silver eyes.
“The prisoner, sire.” I am introduced rather redundantly.
The guards take my crutches, in case a one-legged, one-eyed human girl somehow manages to beat their king to death with them.
