The Sovereign's Claim

Chapter 1

The dawn of my last day in my apartment found me wide awake, cradling a cup of coffee made from the last powder I had in my pantry. 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. The warm, bitter drink was my small, 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, plain, painfully relentless grind of capitalist life.

It was also my last defense against the cold wind waiting for me outside.

I drained the last sip, grabbed my suitcase, and headed to the door. Before shutting it behind me, my gaze lingered on the corner where Gonzo, my cat, used to sleep. His furry bed was gone, packed up with his toys and bowls when I made arrangements for his new home—a place where he could be happy and cared for as I walked away.

The streets were empty as I went a few blocks 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 any more. After the war, the city's pulse had slowed to a crawl. People no longer rushed to weekend jobs, and there were fewer places left to go. Most services that didn't qualify as "essential" had been shut off. TV stations flickered out one by one, office spaces emptied, stores closed, and even many restaurants vanished. Food and supplies came through caravans now in the small floating ships that flew by low over the city, stopping at each door every ten days like clockwork. What remained open operated under the watchful eyes of the occupying forces, every flicker of productivity measured and monitored.

The Vurlixans had no interest in granting us a sense of normalcy. Whatever scraps of routine we managed to preserve came from those who believed it was worth salvaging, who dared to think they could make it work despite everything.

Take the restaurant at the corner of my apartment building. The owner would cook for you if you brought the ingredients, and soon neighbors began drifting in to help in the kitchen. The bakery down the street operated the same way. A seamstress and the old shoemaker kept their doors open too, bartering their skills for whatever people could spare.

Money had lost its meaning. With no one left to charge for water, electricity, or rent, it became little more than paper. Rent invoices stopped arriving after the Vurlixans took over, and the doorman and caretaker vanished not long after, leaving the building to fend for itself.

The TV came back briefly, though only one transmission worked. It cycled through nature shots—endless streams, forests, and skies like some default screensaver. Every few minutes, a calm, synthetic voice would cut in to remind us we were in a "moment of transition," urging patience and promising that everything would be taken care of.

I walked until I reached the highway that circled my neighborhood, my suitcase growing heavier with each step. There were no buses or trains anymore. Once the gas stations ran dry, the electric cars held on a little longer, but even they were shut down eventually. Now, only bikes, skates, horses, and donkeys moved within the permitted zones. Beyond those limits, only the Vurlixan hovers flew—massive machines drifting overhead like grotesque, mechanical insects.

We were to remain contained until something changed.

After a few more minutes, I arrived at the checkpoint. A high fence of organic-like web structure loomed before me, separating my side of town from the rest — a part I hadn't set foot in over two months.

A Vurlixan guide approached, tall and broad, his uniform shimmering in hues of purple and black. His helmet, shaped like a bird's skull, covered every inch of him, revealing nothing of what lay beneath.

He spoke first, his 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 over me. "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."

The first time I saw a Vurlixan in person, it was when a small patrol of three walked down my street. It had been only hours since the internet exploded with news of defeat and occupation, and the full force of the invasion was on its way. I heard their drones before I saw them—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 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, my chest tight, and spotted them: three humanoid figures in shimmering purple-and-black 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 few days, a hover would pause by my window, dropping packages wrapped in a coarse, paper-like material. Inside was an abundant portion of food, though it wasn't anything indulgen. Blocks of protein with the texture of bacon but no discernible animal origin, sacks of rice and beans, tomatoes, crackers, water, and plant milk.

It came at a good time. The stores had already been raided in the chaos after the invasion. 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 humor 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 revelation. A fleeting moment of pure bliss.

Now, standing in front of the Vurlixan guard, I wondered if I'd ever experience something as simple as that again. 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 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. He shoved me in without a word, my suitcase pressed tightly against my chest. The smooth panel slid shut, sealing me into a suffocating 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, as though gliding on a frictionless plane. There was no lurch, no sense of propulsion — only the disorienting feeling of motion without context. My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase, my only tether to the life I'd just left behind.

I lost all sense of time inside that suffocating dark, until the faintest vibration pulsed beneath my feet. The hover slowed, then stopped with a hollow

clink.

A breath of stale air hissed into the chamber as the panel slid open, spilling harsh, sterile 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 was blinding, forcing 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, empty of everything, enclosed in artificial darkness. I was 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 add your registration id to your skin."

He pulled down my collar to reveal the bottom of my neck, and touched the rod to my skin. I felt an intense but quick burn. That was when fear really hit me. Whatever it was that I expected, it wasn't anything that would hurt. When they said they needed volunteer workers, I imagined anything ordinary that an army might use. Carry shit, count stuff, cook. Clean.

"Remove your clothes for complete decontamination." The robotic voice from the translator a 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. Then the guard took it from my hand and gestured sharply toward the passages to the lockers. I walked, looking down. There was no light waiting for me.

"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.

I breathed in, and walked beyond the faint light of the field. The second darkness took me, a gentle swirl of machinery kicked in. A pressure sound came, a gentle mist escaped through valves I couldn't see. The mist coated my skin, cold and cloying, the scent of artificial orange 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 nape of my neck, or the growing sense of dread pooling in my stomach. The machinery hissed one last time. I don't know how long I was in that terrifying darkness, but eventually, it ended, and the digital voices commanded again. "Step forward".

I moved, my feet brushing against the damp, concrete floor. 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 texture to their armor, in dark purple. It was a loose shirt and pants, and moccasin-like shoes. Beneath them, rested what I understood as a helmet. It wasn't sculptural like the one the soldiers wore, but smooth and reflexive like a Daft Punk prop. I slid it over my head, realising it immediately came to life with light inside. The helmet's cushion molded itself against my skin. The visor reflected the outside with crystal clarity. However, it projected an 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 realised 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 gray, their uniformity broken only by a single table in the center of the room.

The Vurlixan stood by the table, towering and motionless. For a moment, I fixated on their form. Unlike the others I'd seen, they wore no helmet. Their head wasn't bird-like, as I had assumed, but something else entirely. Its proportions were off, too small for its elongated body, with smooth, gray skin. No, not skin — it was a chitinous carapace like an insect that gleamed faintly in the dim light, with delicate plaques that fit together in a mosaic. The eyes were small and eerily pale, with white irises punctuated by tiny, pinprick pupils that seemed to pierce right through me, and reminded me of pictures of mantis prayers I had seen online once. Their mouth was the most unnerving feature: a collection of interlocking, insect-like parts that shifted subtly as it made faint, clicking noises.

I was so mesmerized by the alien face that I almost didn't notice when the translator software began to speak.

"Volunteer workers are assigned based on aptitude, need, and capabilities," the synthetic voice said. "Your designation has already been determined."

I couldn't hold back my protest.

"Wait, but you guys don't even know what I'm capable of."

The alien grew quiet, and even without a clear expression, I could deduce annoyance.

"Your blood gave us what we needed to know for now. You will go to a very important position that's in immediate need of agents, placed under the supervision of a soldier. He will be directly responsible for you and your tasks. Any problems, you will report to him. Any questions as well."

The Vurlixan clicked, its mandibles twitching faintly as the translator fell silent.

"What does my job entail?" I asked, my voice betraying a sharpness I hadn't intended.

"Specific tasks will be assigned daily," it replied flatly.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing to piece together what "specific duties" could possibly mean. Instead, I shifted to something more concrete.

"Where's my suitcase?"

The translator took a second longer to work, as though the question was an inconvenience. "Your belongings are being processed. Approved items will be returned to you in due course."

"And if they're not approved?"

"Noncompliant items will be disposed of."

My stomach knotted. The suitcase didn't hold much—clothes, books, comics, a few personal trinkets—but even the thought of losing it felt unbearable. That suitcase was the last thing connecting me to the life I was leaving behind, the life I had willingly abandoned.

The Vurlixan took another rod, like the one from before, from somewhere in its outfit. They held my wrist and pressured it to my arm, pulling it towards my hand. Now I knew what to expect, and the pain passed quickly as I felt the branding. It was like a temporary tattoo, a thin membrane glued to my skin with stuff written on. I knew it was probably for bureaucratic reasons, a more reliable solution than badges and ids. Still, I felt like cattle. Like a product with a barcode.

Suddenly, the Vur made a guttural noise, tilting their head toward a device embedded in their shoulder. Its mouth clicked rapidly, the alien language spilling out in harsher, faster bursts. The translator didn't offer any explanation, but it was clear that the Vurlixan was agitated. Its tone rose, sharp and clipped, though directed at no one visible.

Finally, the translator spoke. "Stay here."

The Vurlixan turned abruptly and left the room through another tear in the webbing, the passage sealing behind it.

I stood there, frozen in the oppressive silence of the gray cube. The minutes stretched on, then blurred into what felt like hours. No one came. So I sat down in a corner, resting my back against the cold wall, and closed my eyes. The burn on my neck and arm throbbed faintly. I felt the thin lines like a barcode. 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 unraveling.

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, neighbors 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, gray machinery 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 to a neighbor who had a garden and plenty of life inside to take good care of him, it felt like I was giving up the last part of myself that mattered.

I wondered if this was what everyone else felt — that quiet, gnawing sadness that came from losing not just the war, but everything else along the way. Your home. Your purpose. Your hope. People didn't talk about it, not openly, but you could see it in their faces. That hollowed-out look, the way they moved as if they'd already given up.

I hadn't wanted to end up like that. 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 gray box, waiting for something unknown to happen, I wasn't so sure anymore.

The web receded. Two Vur walked in, soldiers in their full uniform, moving way too fast for a simple matter of bureaucracy. One of them grabbed my wrist and pushed me through the opened wall at my back. I was rushed back to the field. The small hover that had brought me in was gone. Another approached from the darkened veil on the ceiling. The sleek shape that seemed like a mix between a motorcycle and a wasp, its black and purple carapace reflecting the dim light.