Not intentionally
It was late in the evening when a Magister arrived at the Morningstar estate. He was welcomed immediately into the private study, a pitcher of ice-cold sugar-water personally brought in by the lady of the manor. She bade him sit on the armchair in the coolest part of the room where she sat down close beside him.
The purpose of this visit was dual-fold. Officially, he was here to inform the blonde woman about the tragedy that had befallen her husband.
It had happened during what was a simple sting operation on a group of smugglers.
“He was running on empty and couldn’t keep up.” The ranked Plumber narrated, saucer-wide eyes narrowing behind the image projected by his spacesuit, his distrustful gaze directed at the recently widowed blonde. “Almost as if he’d been drained dry of all strength. Then I remembered reading in his file that he’s married to a dranichian.
“A pure dranichian, right?”
Angela smiled despite the ominous tone of the officer, “Yes, and according to the intergalactic treaty, full-blood dranichians are permitted to establish nests on low-level planets.”
“Provided they keep themselves from wiping out the life-forms therein.”
The unofficial reason for this visit is determined.
Pearly white teeth flash between ruby lips, fingers curled around a perspiring glass of sugar-water to offer the beverage.
“You seem to know very little about dranichians,” Angela calmly begins, arms still outstretched in wait for the Plumber to take the proffered drink. When he takes the glass, she lightly rests her hand on his wrist.
He doesn’t pull away, thinking himself safe from her abilities within the confines of his spacesuit. He sneers, “Oh really?”
A soft chuckle, “I only assume this because if you were more educated about my kind you would know. We-”
Numerous teeth ease through alloy.
“-don’t-”
Numerous teeth sink into scaled skin.
“-kill-”
Slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails tighten around a wrist.
“-our hosts.”
The Magister turns gangrene, his specie's equivalent of turning ashen, when he realizes his mana is being siphoned.
“In fact, we try our best to go through as few hosts as possible within our lifetime. Considering it would draw unnecessary suspicion. It would raise uncomfortable questions. It would bring unwanted attention.
“And it would, simply put, be a complete and utter waste.” She smiles gently, a faint halo shimmering around her face.
“A waste of what?” The ranked Plumber sighs dreamily at the sudden rush of euphoria coursing through him.
Her gaze is benign, her posture doing nothing to betray the malice and spite behind her actions. Her grip tightens, almost to the point of leaving a noticeable dent in the officer’s spacesuit.
She leans forward, “I sincerely question how you’ve managed to attain your status in the organization if you don’t know something so obvious.”
No one but Angela seems to care about the years she had spent learning the ways of her new home, how to mimic their routines and determine what was expected of her and how she was to adhere to these expectations.
They disregard the effort she put into the process of selection, wading through an endless sea of mana inadequacies and genetic mediocrities before finally locating that diamond in the rough.
They completely ignore the time and energy she had invested in order to properly synchronize her metabolism to her chosen host.
They don’t realize how insulting it is, their assumptions over the ease of finding a suitable provider.
Her anger and indignity at the accusation she had overfed herself on her husband almost overwhelmed her.
Forcing herself to calm down was no small feat. Reversing the flow of mana from her body and back into the Plumber’s took even more effort, albeit not in the physical sense.
“As you can see from that small demonstration, it is a simple matter to return what energy I have fed upon. If my husband of over a decade believed he could not spare the energy -energy he willingly allows me to consume- to handle this mission he would have informed me.”
By the time the Magister had emerged from the haze and regained coherence, Angela was at the entrance of the study. He shot to his feet, laser drawn and thrumming.
“You just assaulted an officer, you leech.”
She released a peal of laughter, “Your ignorance know no bounds. Besides, how is it assault when you seemed to be enjoying yourself? I don’t recall you struggling.”
The Plumber tries to dig up whatever information he knows about the woman’s specie. He only knows of the after effects of the feeding, the withered appearance, the strange marks left on the skin. He threatens to show his superiors his wrist, the mark would be proof enough she had tried to eat him.
Angela is unafraid, she knows the mark will not be there. She had returned more mana than she had taken from him, not too much to compromise her hunger, just enough to cause the usual tell-tale signs to completely fade.
“I don’t take kindly to being accused as the cause of my husband’s death. I believe you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, visibly showing her his contempt he storms out while muttering unflattering sobriquets for her species. She is gracious enough to escort him to the main entrance and is inwardly amused that he was keeping his distance from her hands.
Just as he leaves, Angela coldly remarks, “If anyone is to blame for my husband’s death, it should be you. For underestimating the level of danger you placed your squad in for that mission.”
And with that, she slams the door in his face.
She takes a deep breath, several of them, when she leans her back against the doors.
We don’t kill our hosts.
She mentally repeats it again and again in order to drown out the small, nagging voice that adds:
Not intentionally.
The purpose of this visit was dual-fold. Officially, he was here to inform the blonde woman about the tragedy that had befallen her husband.
It had happened during what was a simple sting operation on a group of smugglers.
“He was running on empty and couldn’t keep up.” The ranked Plumber narrated, saucer-wide eyes narrowing behind the image projected by his spacesuit, his distrustful gaze directed at the recently widowed blonde. “Almost as if he’d been drained dry of all strength. Then I remembered reading in his file that he’s married to a dranichian.
“A pure dranichian, right?”
Angela smiled despite the ominous tone of the officer, “Yes, and according to the intergalactic treaty, full-blood dranichians are permitted to establish nests on low-level planets.”
“Provided they keep themselves from wiping out the life-forms therein.”
The unofficial reason for this visit is determined.
Pearly white teeth flash between ruby lips, fingers curled around a perspiring glass of sugar-water to offer the beverage.
“You seem to know very little about dranichians,” Angela calmly begins, arms still outstretched in wait for the Plumber to take the proffered drink. When he takes the glass, she lightly rests her hand on his wrist.
He doesn’t pull away, thinking himself safe from her abilities within the confines of his spacesuit. He sneers, “Oh really?”
A soft chuckle, “I only assume this because if you were more educated about my kind you would know. We-”
Numerous teeth ease through alloy.
“-don’t-”
Numerous teeth sink into scaled skin.
“-kill-”
Slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails tighten around a wrist.
“-our hosts.”
The Magister turns gangrene, his specie's equivalent of turning ashen, when he realizes his mana is being siphoned.
“In fact, we try our best to go through as few hosts as possible within our lifetime. Considering it would draw unnecessary suspicion. It would raise uncomfortable questions. It would bring unwanted attention.
“And it would, simply put, be a complete and utter waste.” She smiles gently, a faint halo shimmering around her face.
“A waste of what?” The ranked Plumber sighs dreamily at the sudden rush of euphoria coursing through him.
Her gaze is benign, her posture doing nothing to betray the malice and spite behind her actions. Her grip tightens, almost to the point of leaving a noticeable dent in the officer’s spacesuit.
She leans forward, “I sincerely question how you’ve managed to attain your status in the organization if you don’t know something so obvious.”
No one but Angela seems to care about the years she had spent learning the ways of her new home, how to mimic their routines and determine what was expected of her and how she was to adhere to these expectations.
They disregard the effort she put into the process of selection, wading through an endless sea of mana inadequacies and genetic mediocrities before finally locating that diamond in the rough.
They completely ignore the time and energy she had invested in order to properly synchronize her metabolism to her chosen host.
They don’t realize how insulting it is, their assumptions over the ease of finding a suitable provider.
Her anger and indignity at the accusation she had overfed herself on her husband almost overwhelmed her.
Forcing herself to calm down was no small feat. Reversing the flow of mana from her body and back into the Plumber’s took even more effort, albeit not in the physical sense.
“As you can see from that small demonstration, it is a simple matter to return what energy I have fed upon. If my husband of over a decade believed he could not spare the energy -energy he willingly allows me to consume- to handle this mission he would have informed me.”
By the time the Magister had emerged from the haze and regained coherence, Angela was at the entrance of the study. He shot to his feet, laser drawn and thrumming.
“You just assaulted an officer, you leech.”
She released a peal of laughter, “Your ignorance know no bounds. Besides, how is it assault when you seemed to be enjoying yourself? I don’t recall you struggling.”
The Plumber tries to dig up whatever information he knows about the woman’s specie. He only knows of the after effects of the feeding, the withered appearance, the strange marks left on the skin. He threatens to show his superiors his wrist, the mark would be proof enough she had tried to eat him.
Angela is unafraid, she knows the mark will not be there. She had returned more mana than she had taken from him, not too much to compromise her hunger, just enough to cause the usual tell-tale signs to completely fade.
“I don’t take kindly to being accused as the cause of my husband’s death. I believe you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, visibly showing her his contempt he storms out while muttering unflattering sobriquets for her species. She is gracious enough to escort him to the main entrance and is inwardly amused that he was keeping his distance from her hands.
Just as he leaves, Angela coldly remarks, “If anyone is to blame for my husband’s death, it should be you. For underestimating the level of danger you placed your squad in for that mission.”
And with that, she slams the door in his face.
She takes a deep breath, several of them, when she leans her back against the doors.
We don’t kill our hosts.
She mentally repeats it again and again in order to drown out the small, nagging voice that adds:
Not intentionally.