Sovereign's Claim: Overhaul

A new version of the story: longer, darker, sexier, and finally with the ending the volunteer deserves.

Warnings: Non consensual dynamics, onscreen rape, breeding kink.

***

The volunteer

I knelt on the cold floor to see my cat, Gonzo, crouched at the very back of the plastic carrier. His green eyes were looking around, trying to understand what the hell was going on. He wouldn't be coming out anytime soon, so I just stuck my hand inside and petted his ear, rubbing the thick skin between my index finger and my thumb. He was too stressed out to purr, but he let me touch him.

I left him behind and closed the door quickly before I could change my mind. In that small bathroom, he would be kept while he acclimated to his new home.

Ms Leyla called me to the kitchen. She had brewed coffee and unpacked some cookies, both of which had made my heart ache almost as bad as saying goodbye to the little guy. Coffee had run out from the stores months ago, and the rations we received had none of it.

"In a few weeks he will be chilling in the living room, basking in the afternoon sun," she said as she served me a warm cup.

I knew that. Most cats hated the change in environment but eventually grew used to it.

"Yeah, I just hate doing that to him. But he's a sweet guy, and he will love to have company."

Mrs Leyla had seven other cats, one of which rubbed against my leg after I sat down, begging for pets on his soft rump. She also took care of all the strays in the neighbourhood, sweet or feral. Her son and his wife moved in to live with her, after everything had come crashing down, bringing in the baby. They all loved pets.

It was the best place for Gonzo to be. He would be loved, entertained and fed.

I added a gulp of synthetic milk to my coffee and drank with some pleasure. The smell alone was nostalgic, even without sugar. Food and supplies came through drones now, a winged crate stopping at each door every ten days like clockwork. There would be bottles of a thick cream-like nutritious liquid, that I dared to call synthetic milk, water bottles, a few vegetables, some sort of meat that reminded me of pork, but definitely wasn't, cooking oil and grains (sometimes corn, sometimes rice, or grounded soy). It didn't really resemble what we would get at a supermarket, but the Vurlixans had no interest in granting us a sense of normalcy.

"Are you sure about what you are going to do,

fia

?"

She said daughter,

filha

, with an accent from out-state that told me plenty. Like myself and a bunch of others, she had come to the big city to make her living, and here she stayed. The house she was in was probably rented and paid with effort. But rent invoices and bills had stopped arriving after the Vurlixans took over. Most people couldn't go to work and bank networks were offline anyway. Money lost all meaning. In my apartment building, the doorman and the cleaner vanished not long after. They went home to take care of their own, of course.

I fumbled with the edges of my sleeves.

"I'm not doing so great all alone by myself, you know. At least work will keep me moving."

I felt tears pool even talking about it.

"Of course,

fia

. I hope it works out for you. If it doesn't, and you come back, your cat will be here waiting for you."

She pushed the plate of cookies in my direction, and I grabbed one. It was the good stuff, processed with sugars and flavouring. And then she offered me a napkin to dry my tears.

The streets were empty as I walked down the street, the early Sunday quiet stretching in every direction. Sundays used to carry at least a flicker of life, even at odd hours. Not anymore. After the war, the city's quick pulse had slowed to a crawl. People no longer rushed to work or to have fun somewhere. There were fewer places left to go. Most services that didn't qualify as "essential" had been shut off.

Whatever scraps of routine we managed to preserve came from those who believed it was worth salvaging, who could make it work despite everything. At the restaurant near my apartment building, the owner would cook for you if you brought the ingredients. Neighbours began drifting in to help in the kitchen, and a community garden was planted in pots at the door. The bakery down the street operated the same way. Also nearby, a seamstress and an old shoemaker kept their doors open, bartering for whatever people could spare. The rest was shut down and quiet. Markets had been raided and emptied out. Stores were treated as a place to go in and grab what you need.

The world as we knew was over anyway, so who cared?

It was a quiet apocalypse.

I pushed in through the gate, ran up the stairs made of old 70s tiles until I reached the first floor, where my neighbour, Mr Inacio, was volunteering as a doorman. He sat on a couch that was brought to the corridor and day in and out, he was going through a long pile of books. He made sure no stranger walked up to our floors. He wished me a good day as I waited for the lift.

My apartment was minuscule, as were all the units in that building. Just one room, with a kitchen and a bathroom. The kitchen was a tiny, cluttered mess, filled with the residue of two weeks of neglect. My neglect, of course. I had cleaned just enough, a single mug and the pot, to prepare my final breakfast.

Washing the rest of dishes was the final gesture to hold on to who I was, even as I stood at the edge of a precipice, ready to abandon it. It was the last remnant of the common stressful adult life I'd been leading.

I grabbed my suitcase, done the night before, and headed to the door. Before shutting it behind me, my gaze lingered on the corner where Gonzo used to sleep. His furry bed was gone, packed up with his toys and bowls when I made arrangements for his new home.

I was crying again before I locked the door.

I had never met my neighbours before the end of the world, apart from the occasional share of the lift. The night the invasion began, the girl downstairs had a nervous breakdown, and all the women on the upper and lower floors gathered to help her spend the night. From there on, we were always checking on each other, even if we didn't talk much. We had some meetings weekly to share tasks related to taking care of the building. That's how I met Mr Inacio.

The small apartments, whose rent wasn't the cheapest, attracted two types of people: students and people without family. However, the younger tenants started leaving soon after, when they realized that the occupation was going to last. They moved with their friends, with family, others just walked away, probably to try to leave the city. The loners lingered.

Mr Inacio looked at me with pity when I was back so soon, carrying a bag. He had seen that enough times.

"Geez, girl. I wish you luck out there."

"Thanks. I don't know if I'll be back, so if someone shows up..."

"Stop. There are other empty units. We'll hold onto your stuff."

"Thanks. I hope you guys end up well."

"We will. In the glory of God."

I walked until I reached the highway that circled my neighbourhood. There were no buses or trains any more. Once the gas stations ran dry, the electric cars held on a little longer, but even they were shut down eventually. Only bikes and skates moved within the permitted zones. Beyond those limits, only the Vurlixan hovers flew -- massive smooth glass ships drifting quietly, going by like helicopters.

After forty minutes, I reached the encampments of people waiting for permission to cross the checkpoints. Beyond the last row of tents stood the barrier. The fence wasn't made of common weaved metal. It was built from a dark, web-like structure that looked organic, almost alive, while still shining silver. It stretched high, separating my side of town from the others. I had heard that some people got permission to cross. Usually they had a valid reason; they were away from home when the barrier was lifted, or they had family on the other side. But I had also heard about people denied or ignored, stuck on the wrong side with no explanation. The rules weren't clear. It was hard to know what counted or who decided.

As I reached the checkpoint, a Vurlixan guide approached, walking like a creature from a creepy pasta viral clip, too slow and too economic in every aspect. He was tall and broad, dressed in shiny armour in hues of dark colours, almost black. The shape was human-like, but not enough to not give me goosebumps of dread. His waist was too narrow, his arms and legs were too long. His helmet, shaped like a bird's skull, covered every inch of the head, revealing nothing of what lay beneath.

The first time I saw a Vurlixan in person, it was when a small patrol of three walked down my street.

Only a few hours had passed since the internet exploded with news of defeat and occupation. The full force of the invasion was on its way. I heard their drones first, rounded machines that hovered silently, defying gravity without wings or propellers. One slipped into my apartment through an open window, emitting a faint blue light as it scanned the room. Gonzo had hissed and bolted under the wardrobe, his eyes wide with fear. The drone lingered for a moment, then floated out the way it came. I ran to the window and saw them: three humanoid figures in shimmering purple-and-black armoured suits, their helmets resembling bird skulls. They moved, without curiosity for their surroundings or the people living there, in a straight line down the street.

After that, the supplies started coming. Every ten days, a hover would pause by my window, dropping packages wrapped in a coarse, paper-like material, with the rations inside. It came at a good time, because the stores had already been raided in the chaos after the news. People grabbed whatever they could find. But when the coffee ran out, the outrage online was immediate. Memes and videos of coffee-hoarding stashes flooded the internet like a collective last gasp of humour and defiance. But even that fizzled out eventually, leaving only the silence of surrender. I survived on the scraps in my pantry. The first time I fried that strange, synthetic bacon and shared it with Gonzo, it felt like a miracle.

Now, standing in front of the Vurlixan guard, I wondered if I'd ever experience a happiness as simple as that again.

He spoke first, the voice obscured by the strange clicks and murmurs of their language, before the machinery in his helmet translated.

"Go back home," the synthetic voice commanded.

"I'm here to join the selection," I replied.

The guide tilted his head, his alien gaze sweeping me up and down. "The selection was twenty days ago."

"I know," I said. "But I had to find someone to care for my cat first."

"What is a cat?"

"A small animal. My pet."

He didn't move, not until a small hover whirred into view, slicing through the air with the precision of a hummingbird. It circled once, then dropped sharply to the ground, its surface gleaming with an otherworldly dark smoothness. A slit opened in the hover's shell, spilling faint light. Before I could react, the guard grabbed my arm and hauled me toward it. Regret hit halfway. It struck when I saw the narrow space inside, no larger than a phone booth, with just enough of a curve to allow me some comfort curved back. He shoved me in without a word, my suitcase pressed tightly against my chest. The smooth panel slid shut, sealing me into darkness.

The silence was absolute. No hum of machinery, no faint vibration of engine -- nothing. Just me, clutching my case in the still void, feeling the weight of every decision I had made up to this moment. Then, I felt inertia break as the hover took the air. The hover moved with an unsettling smoothness, frictionless. There was only a gentle lurch, the disorienting feeling of motion without context.

They don't eat or kill people. They just need work, I reminded myself. In exchange, there would be comfort, shelter, food, recreation. Purpose.

That's what I wanted. What I needed.

I lost all sense of time inside that suffocating dark. And my chest was... void. Emptied. But that feeling wasn't new, was it?

Even before the war, there had been days when I felt like a hollowed-out version of myself. Back then, it had been easier to hide, easier to tell myself it was just the pressure of work or the endless loop of obligations that made everything feel so gray. But it wasn't just that. I'd spent so many mornings lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering why I couldn't muster the energy to care. Why every decision, every movement, felt like dragging a boulder uphill.

I told myself it was normal. Everyone feels that way sometimes. But the truth was, I hadn't felt "normal" in years. Long before the Vurlixans arrived, long before the war upended everything, I was already unravelling.

I remembered those nights when I'd sit in the dark, Gonzo curled up beside me, his little purr the only sound in the room. Sometimes I'd cry without even knowing why, my chest aching with a loneliness I couldn't explain. Other times, I'd feel nothing at all, just a vast, empty quiet that swallowed everything. I tried to keep moving, to tell myself that if I just got through one more day, it would pass. But it didn't pass.

The war didn't make it better. If anything, it gave me something new to focus on, something external to blame for the weight I already carried. I used to think the war would be fast. That it would sweep through like a storm and leave us either victorious or crushed. But instead, it dragged on, a slow erosion of everything familiar. First came the news reports, carefully censored but still grim enough to reveal the truth. Then the rationing, the shortages, the curfews. And finally, the silence. No more broadcasts, no more leaders to reassure us. Just the sound of drones and the distant thrum of hovers marking the beginning of the end.

I thought I had prepared myself. I really did. When the Vurlixans arrived in full force, I told myself I'd survive, like everyone else. But surviving turned out to be a series of small defeats. The kind you don't notice at first--giving up coffee, watching stores shut down, neighbours disappearing one by one, searching for where they'd like to be at the end times. Little pieces of normalcy slipped away until there was nothing left but the grim basics of survival.

I tried to stay strong for Gonzo. It sounds ridiculous now, but taking care of him gave me something to hold onto. Feeding him, brushing his fur, hearing his soft purr--it was an anchor, a reminder that I could still be human in a world that felt increasingly hollow. And when I gave him up, when I handed him over...

I burst into tears right then. I thought leaving, volunteering for this, would be a way to escape the slow decay. Maybe it would be different, I told myself. Maybe there was still something left for me to do, to be. But sitting there in that dark box, waiting for something unknown to happen, I wasn't so sure anymore.

The faintest vibration pulsed beneath my feet. I dried my eyes and nose on my shirt, trying to compose myself. The hover slowed, then stopped with a hollow

thud.

A breath of cold air hissed into the chamber as the panel slid open, spilling harsh blinding light into the narrow space.

"Step out," the synthetic voice commanded.

I obeyed, my legs stiff as I unfolded from the cramped compartment. The light forced me to squint until my vision adjusted. Around me stretched a sprawling, antiseptic, gray expanse, kept in low light. The floor beneath me was made of grass. I was in a soccer stadium, the last to arrive to a party long wrapped up and cleaned. That soccer field probably held hundreds of people when selection first happened.

Vurlixan guards awaited me. They stood still until I stepped out, then one held my shirt. I flinched back. The soldier allowed me to, realizing my apprehension.

He showed me a tool. It reminded me of an epi-pen like I had seen once in a movie.

"This will collect a bit of your blood for analysis and mark your registration ID on your skin. It's a mandatory procedure."

He pulled down my collar to reveal the bottom of my neck and touched the rod to my skin. I felt a quick, but intense burn. That was when fear really hit me. Whatever it was that I expected, it wasn't anything that would hurt.

"You are registered. Remove your clothes for complete decontamination." The robotic voice from the translator software echoed from his helmet.

"Wait..."

"Don't delay the process. A clean uniform will be given to you after decontamination."

I obeyed, trembling, struggling with my sweaty shirt and jeans clinging to me. Once I was out of them and without my shoes, I put them in the suitcase. The guard took it from my hand and gestured sharply toward the obscured passages to the lockers. I walked, looking down.

"Proceed through for decontamination," the translator instructed.

I hesitated. "What's that, exactly?"

"Proceed." He said again, as if I had misunderstood only the most basic part of his instructions.

The second darkness took me, a gentle swirl of machinery kicked in. A pressure sound and a gentle mist escaped through valves I couldn't see. The mist coated my skin, cold and cloying, the scent of artificial citrus clinging to my nose and throat. I held my breath instinctively, though I doubted it would make a difference. A faint hum rose around me, growing louder as the decontamination process continued.

I stood still, shivering slightly, unsure whether it was from the mist, the brand burning faintly at the bottom of my neck, or the growing sense of dread pooling in my stomach. The machinery hissed one last time, and the digital voices commanded again. "Step forward". Ahead, a dim common fluorescent light flickered to life, illuminating what used to be a locker room. The sinks, cabinets, and mirrors were still in place, but the Vurlixan weird web-like metal was mixed with the original concrete architecture, changing its design to fit the new purpose. I expected a towel anywhere, but there was none. While I waited, one of the small circular drones came up behind me. The blue scanning light ran me up and down.

But to my surprise, like water in a heating pan, the mist evaporated from my skin in seconds. Then one of the lockers opened and there was something hanging inside. I pulled the clothing, finding an outfit much similar in visual to their armour. However, it was soft, leathery, coloured dark purple, with some iridescent white lines running down its sides. A loose shirt, pants, and slippers like shoes.

Beneath them, rested a helmet. It wasn't sculptural like the one the soldiers wore, but smooth and reflexive like a prop that the third member of Daft Punk would wear. I braided my curls to make sure they wouldn't be too crunched inside, or snag on any loose part. However, there was no need. The helmet slid over my head comfortably. It immediately came to life with light and buzz. The helmet's cushion moulded itself against my skin and my scalp, a soft shell cupped my mouth and nose, blowing fresh air onto it. The visor reflected the outside with crystal clarity in an edgeless perfect copy. It also projected a hologram-like interface over my sight in augmented reality. It gave me a time of day, a temperature, and weather widget at the bottom of my field of view, surprisingly, in my language.

Arrows pointed the way for me. I turned and realized that at the opposite end of where I had walked in, a metallic web on the wall shifted, folding into itself to reveal a narrow passage. Beyond it was a room that resembled an office, though stripped of any semblance of warmth or humanity. The walls were smooth and grey, their uniformity broken only by a single table in the centre of the room.