Serge noticed the sweat on Kestrel’s face, droplets forming at the tip of her chin. She casually wiped them off with the back of her hand.
"She’s not having it easy either," Serge thought. "She’s learning and growing."
When Kestrel fired the first shot, she missed the monster. The monster, an ugly human-like head, paused slightly before quickly fleeing. But by the second shot, the monster’s movents beca strangely slow and clumsy, as if its brain had suddenly beco muddled, and Kestrel’s bullet hit it squarely. By the third shot, the monster was completely frozen, a live target, and Kestrel blew away half of its head.
In just three shots, she learned how to invade the monster’s mind in an instant. In such a short ti, she learned how to seize an enemy, to influence its actions. Her ability to learn amid such chaos was terrifying.
"What kind of person would she have been if she hadn’t grown up in the Tower?" The thought flickered through Serge’s mind.
No more monsters appeared on the roof. It seed to sense the threat and had fled far away. The tal ceiling of the cafeteria, however, was slowly deforming, bulging in so areas, oozing a rusty-colored liquid.
That ugly human-headed monster was extrely cunning. It no longer attacked directly, but sohow, it had spread a highly corrosive saliva all over the places it had crawled.
Its face had been repeatedly hit, filling it with resentnt. So, it wanted to pry open the roof of the blimp, lift a corner of the tal can, and let all the mutants swarm in to take revenge on those who had caused it pain.
Drip. Drip.
The ceiling in so places had already been eaten through, and thick acidic liquid began to drip. The liquid hit the dining table and imdiately produced a puff of green smoke, corroding a small round hole in the table.
Drip, drip.
The sound was like a knock in everyone’s heart, burning a hole of fear. Everyone stopped what they were doing, looking up at the ceiling overhead, wondering when it would be eaten through, fall apart, and let the monsters see the helpless betas.
"We need to do a psychic groom for the alpha, wake her up," Kestrel suddenly said. She kept her gun-holding pose, rubbing her shoulder with her other hand.
"A psychic groom? Here?" Serge pointed at himself, "You...you an ?"
The psychic world was a big, amazing place but also really delicate. When a beta enters an alpha’s psychic landscape, they have to be super careful, like walking on thin ice. One wrong step could seriously hurt the alpha’s psyche, or the beta could get lost in the alpha’s psychic landscape and never wake up. So, most betas prefer to do psychic grooming in a special grooming room.
The fancy grooming rooms the Empire set up were made to be cozy and comfortable. Soft rugs in easy-on-the-eyes colors covered the floor, comfy loungers and couches were arranged, and the walls were really good at blocking sound. Most betas would do so things before the ntal grooming started, like sitting quietly to get their mood right, playing so chill music, and filling the air with fresh and comfy fruit slls.
Once inside the alpha’s psychic landscape, the beta would be really careful and polite, never rushing in without thinking. They’d just gently get rid of so of the ntal junk piled up on the edges, not being too rough, always keeping it safe.
There was no case like this before. Nobody would do ntal grooming in such a bloody, dangerous situation. Especially not for an alpha who had just been badly hurt and whose psychic landscape was sure to be all over the place.
"Yes." Kestrel gave him a matter-of-fact look, "You’re the best in our class at ntal grooming, if I rember right."
Even though Kestrel didn’t know her classmates that well, she rembered the na of the student who ranked first in the yearly tests.
It’s true, Kestrel’s ntal power was really strong and unmatched. But when it ca to the careful work of ntal grooming, he was the top student at the school.
Serge took a deep breath and found a clean spot on his clothes to clean off his bloody hands. When his hand reached the alpha’s forehead, he couldn’t help but look up. Nicole and another girl beta’s eyes were sparkling, giving him a thumbs up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kestrel had already turned her head back, her eyes still on the ceiling, like she knew Serge would go ahead without even having to look.
Serge was surprised that Kestrel still rembered his grades in the grooming class. Serge took a deep breath, cald down, and gently put his warm hands on the alpha’s cold eyes.
...
Kestrel felt soone tugging on her clothes. She looked around and found the alpha with long braids was already awake. She was wrapped up in layers of white bandages, and there was no blood on her face. But as soon as she opened her eyes, she reached out and pulled on Kestrel.
"You..." she pointed at the gun Kestrel was carrying on her shoulder, saying, "This gun doesn’t work for you. Swap with ." Her voice was scratchy at first, but by the last word, she had forced herself to sit up, took off the smaller Scorpion submachine gun around her waist, and switched it with Kestrel.
Kestrel gave back the heavy assault rifle in her hand, took the much lighter submachine gun, and rubbed her shoulder. Under the wide dark blue sportswear, a big patch of skin had turned red.
The alpha’s one shoulder was totally useless. She took the heavy tal gun with the only hand that could still move and put it on her shoulder.
"You, you can’t shoot anymore." Serge reached out to help her. He had bandaged her wound himself and knew how bad the injury was. If this person wasn’t an alpha, but a beta or a regular person, an injury like that would be enough to kill her two or three tis over. The quick-and-dirty stitches couldn’t stand a bit of shaking, let alone the strong kickback of guns.
"If I don’t shoot, we’ll die," the alpha, dark circles under her eyes, threw back her blood-soaked braid and looked up at the ceiling, which was slowly deforming and lting. "We’ll all die. too."
"Then you..." Serge thought for a mont, then finally suggested, "You can rest the gun on my shoulder."
He supported the wounded alpha from behind, extending his hands, usually used for arranging flowers and brewing tea, to help steady the heavy weapon, letting the hard butt of the gun rest on his shoulder.
Serge knew many people were quietly observing him. He was too close to an unfamiliar alpha. But, in that mont, he felt as though he didn’t care. The person leaning against him was a re alpha, devoid of titles or glow, yet she was a life. A hero who, despite losing one hand, had still picked up a gun to protect them. At this mont of life and death, she was soone worth supporting with all his strength.
The heat from the alpha’s back seeped through his clothing, and he could sll the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood on her. Serge supported her, holding the gun with her. They were close, but there were no romantic thoughts. In this mont, he faintly felt like a soldier on the battlefield, standing shoulder to shoulder with the alpha, waiting for the fierce and ruthless enemy to strike.
The cabin’s roof trembled, and dust fell. Then, a large chunk of the roof caved in under everyone’s despairing gazes, crashing down into the cabin.
With a crash, debris and dust filled the air. The sunlight poured in, blindingly bright.
The interior of the blimp was no longer safe; it was like a tin can that had been pried open, exposing its tender insides for any predator to devour.
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