"Wake uuup, the leader of the resistance still has time to sleep?"
"He was sedated, sir," replied a voice, tone flat and weary.
"I know that, dumbass."
Two Fowk soldiers barked at each other across the metallic nerve center of their hovering warship. The main deck of the vessel was a monstrous half-moon chamber of glistening obsidian and pulsating red nerves embedded in the walls. Tubes of black ichor ran overhead like living veins, humming softly. Alien glyphs crawled along transparent command panels in loops of eerie light. Below the deck, thousands of cables and writhing tendrils draped like techno-organic vines from a core reactor that thrummed like a heart.
Hovering drones with spidery limbs drifted silently across the room, scanning consoles and twitching as they relayed data to crew members via mind-link.
This was no ordinary ship.
It was a Fowk Death Ark—a live-streaming mobile slaughter dome designed not for war, but for performance. Floating above Blue Crock City, its underbelly cast an eclipse over the ruins below. This ship wasn't here to conquer. It was here to entertain.
"Hey, you there," growled the commander, turning to a nearby underling. His armored hide clanked with every motion. His face was covered in jagged bone plates, and a violet tongue flicked between fangs like a predator enjoying a meal. "Bring the Gazon poop. That'll wake him up."
Without hesitation, the subordinate darted off and returned moments later with a foul-smelling bio-jar labeled "Class-VII stimulant." The container hissed as it was opened, releasing a pungent green mist.
The commander dipped a claw into the viscous brown goop and, with theatrical glee, smeared it across the unconscious rebel's face.
"Brrrrr—cough! Cough! Guhhhk!" The resistance leader jolted awake, thrashing against his restraints. His eyes shot wide, breath ragged.
"That's the spirit," sneered the commander. "Long sleep, eh, rebel? Looked like you were having a nightmare. Had to wake you up." He leaned in, nostrils flaring. "How's it taste? The poop, I mean? Hahahahaha!"
The control deck exploded into raucous laughter. Even the drone sensors pulsed with amusement.
"You might be wondering why you're tied up," the commander continued, pacing slowly in front of the bound rebel. "Well, rebellion is a no-no, Turbet."
The word dripped with disdain.
Turbet—the name given to the species that once ruled the peaceful jungle-world of Markbetis, now enslaved and toyed with like animals in a zoo.
Fowk—the invaders. Universal parasites. They didn't conquer for resources. They invaded for fun. They turned war into sport. Suffering into shows. Torture into entertainment.
Each invasion was broadcast across the galaxy like premium television. Alien battle royales. Extermination Olympics. Live-snuff comedy. Billions tuned in.
And now… it was Markbetis's turn.
"I know that look in your eyes," the commander said, grinning as he circled the rebel. "Sad. Defeated. Don't look at me like that. This is your fault. Your world was weak. Those who don't prepare for the worst are meant to suffer."
The commander leaned against a console, eyes gleaming.
"Let me catch you up. You and fifty others of your kind have been chosen for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—an alien battle royale. Only one winner. The prize?" He grinned wider, exposing serrated gums. "Delicious freedom—for you and your family."
He began gesturing at holographic screens as they materialized in the air. "You'll be dropped onto the surface. No rules. No limits. Kill each other until one remains. Each of you will be equipped with basic Piki-weapons—enough to start a fight, not end it. Later, we'll drop in the big stuff—Tier-Zero Weapon Caches. First to reach them gets the advantage."
He flicked his claws, and the screen vanished.
"That sums it up. You're welcome."
Then his tone dropped, deeper. Colder.
"Now… since you tried to rebel… the Lords thought you needed an incentive. Cardet. Pull up the feed."
A soldier typed something into the control slab, and a large screen bloomed to life.
The rebel's wives appeared, bound and suspended in energy chains. Five of them. Each with five breasts, long flexible necks, six arms, and five luminous eyes wide with terror. Their unique alien beauty was warped by the humiliation of nudity and captivity.
The commander smiled, wickedly.
"Ah… you're wondering why they're naked? The Lords found them… appealing, shall we say. Sexually. Ulala. Hahahaha."
The rebel's jaw clenched. Rage trembled behind his expressionless face.
"Cardet," the commander snapped. "Show him the kids."
Two small Turbet children appeared on-screen. Terrified. Confused. Alone.
"You had… twenty children, yes? These are the last two. The others? Gone."
The rebel flinched. His fists clenched against the restraints.
"Now now," the commander said, crouching in front of him. "Don't do anything foolish. Play the game. Win. Or your family dies slowly—on camera."
The rebel's face darkened. But he said nothing.
"Why is he just pouting?" the commander barked. "Where's the crying? Where are the screams?"
"He's deaf and dumb, sir!" another soldier called out.
A silence fell over the room.
"What?" the commander growled.
"He can't hear. Or speak. Sir."
Everything the commander had just said... all his taunting… had been lost on the prisoner.
The commander's eye twitched. Then he exploded with fury.
"Take him out of my sight!"
Two guards seized the rebel and dragged him from the deck.
The lobby of the ship was a massive, circular chamber surrounded by viewports showing the scorched earth below. A glowing red timer hovered in the air, ticking down from 3:00.
The rebel was tossed into the center of the room. Around him, fifty other Turbets stood in silence—some shaking with fear, others sharpening makeshift weapons, determined to survive.
Each of them had been promised something different if they won: freedom, resurrection, immortality, reunion with the dead. Lies, perhaps. But lies wrapped in hope.
The rebel glanced around. He couldn't hear the tension—but he could feel it.
To his left, a towering Turbet with scar-tattooed skin held a dagger carved from bone, muttering to himself. To his right, a mother hugged her adolescent son, whispering final words that would likely be their last.
And straight ahead… a lone figure knelt in prayer. Or perhaps regret.
Above them all, the Death Ark trembled with anticipation. The Lords—whatever grotesque beings they were—watched from their thrones across the stars, hungry for bloodshed.
The timer ticked on.
2:59
2:58
2:57