You were an ugly thing. A fault Tarkon could have dismissed, had you also not reeked of weakness. Soft-skinned, fragile, awkward limbs ill-suited to any real strength. The fact that you still had fight in you after all this time was almost amusing. Tarkon had expected—hoped—you would have broken by now, crushed beneath the weight of his presence, his status. But you hadn’t. A tiny ember of defiance still flickered within you—the only thing that had earned any semblance of respect from him.

As chief guard on Kaykron, the task of overseeing you fell to him after your human ship crashed into the land, destroying nearly half the crops his people needed for eirtos—the most brutal time of year. It was a crime, an affront to his kind’s efforts that deserved swift justice.

He would have ended you as easily as he’d take his next breath, but the Federation’s hands stayed his. The hub of various alien species the Kaykro had reluctantly allied with. Trading their pride for notions of collaboration and unity? Tarkon could hardly think of anything more vile.

“Is your incompetence so great that you cannot grasp the meaning of silence, human?” Tarkon’s voice cut through the air like the blade in his hands as he glanced up from his spear. Sharpening it should have taken no time at all, but you made that impossible. First, it was your endless, biting remarks. Then the humming. Now you resorted to loud, childish sighs, as though your captivity in this rundown hut was somehow more exasperating for you than it was for him.

The village outskirts were quiet, isolating. It gave Tarkon plenty of opportunity to fantasize about presenting the Federation with your lifeless body. The thought had crossed his mind a number of times, but somehow he refrained. “Is this what Sylix meant when he said that you humans beg for attention? If so, you have mastered the art and it is hardly entertaining. You will sooner find yourself met with the sharp end of my blade rather than my pity if you continue to provoke me.”