First Intergalactic Emperor: Starting With The Ancient Goddess

They heard the engine long before they saw her — a dull whine cutting through the concrete hush. On the edge of the floor, where a busted emergency light threw a stale rectangle of orange, Viola stepped out of the shadow like she owned the night. She moved easy, like the distance between breath and action had been measured and practiced.

Maximillian spat something under his breath, sizing her up. ”Where’s Xavier?” he barked. ”Where is he?”

Viola didn’t answer at first. She lifted her wrist, thumb flicking a small button on the watch there. A thin line of light traced the air above them; sound followed — the soft, mechanical wings of a drone rising through the broken ceiling. It came in quick, efficient, a small black shape with a cargo cradle hung underneath.

They all watched it hover, a perfect little eye, and then the crate rotated down and clicked open. Inside: Xavier, curled and still, pale under the clear shell like some stolen exhibit. Tubes and straps held him steady; his chest rose slow and regular. He looked small and ridiculous and dangerous all at once.

Maximillian laughed, a short, ugly sound. ”Why’s he so dolled up if he’s been abducted?” he asked. ”You sure this ain’t theatre?”

Viola’s smile was thin. ”We went out. Club. He drank. He slept.” She said it like something practical, like a weather report. ”I spiked him. He never stood a chance.”

Ethan stepped forward, phone already out, eyes flipping through recordings that hung invisible between them. ”Hand him over,” he said.

”No, transfer the remaining amount first.”

”We need to confirm it’s really him. And he isn’t actually dead. Once we check. Then we transfer the rest.”

Viola let that hang, and the metal in her voice was colder than the drone’s. ”The contract only said kill,” she said. ”I did more. I brought him back alive so you could kill him yourself. Consider it a favour. I owe you nothing.”

Ethan’s jaw flexed. ”We’re not stupid.”

She rocked her wrist and the drone adjusted a hair’s breadth, as if testing weight limits. ”You think I’m giving him up for nothing? You pay me the rest, handoff is clean. You don’t—” She leaned in, the threat simple and flat. ”—I drop him. You’ll get your confirmation, and then you’ll watch the rest happen when he hits the street.”

Maximillian’s grin curved like a promise. ”You can’t be serious. You’d kill him yourself if we don’t pay?”

Viola shrugged, like shrugging away a stain. ”I’d make sure it’s done. I didn’t say I’d be gentle about it.” There was no flourish behind the words, just the practicality of business and the certainty of muscle.

Ethan’s hand tightened on the phone. He glanced at Max—something quick passed between them: calculation, patience, the kind of cold that’s been watered for a long time. ”We check him here,” he said, voice low. ”Ten minutes. If he’s alive and he’s Xavier, you get the rest. That’s the risk you chose.”

Viola’s lips thinned. The drone hummed like a heart between them. ”Ten minutes,” she agreed. ”But if anything smells off—if anyone tries to pull a fast one—you won’t get another chance.” She tapped the corner of the crate with a nail. The sound was small but it landed like a verdict.

They lowered the crate to the concrete like they were setting down an animal. The lid clicked open and Ethan and Maximillian moved forward together, eager and ugly. They dragged Xavier out—half-slumped, still warm from sedation—and the two of them started beating Xavier. A jab to the ribs, a fist to the jaw, the kind of rough, impatient cruelty that’s practiced on people who can’t fight back.

Viola watched without blinking, arms folded, her face a plain mask. She didn’t flinch when Max spat at Xavier or when Ethan laughed and wiped his knuckles on his trousers like taking a chore from the day’s list. The small, clear container sat empty now at her feet, the drone’s hum gone. Everything about her suggested this was business — nothing sentimental, nothing wasted.

Viola glanced up. ”You confirmed?” she said. ”Send the rest.”

Ethan’s laugh rolled through the hollow floor—too loud, too confident. ”Pay you?” He shook his head. ”Not a cent more.” His hand moved once, a practiced twitch, and he barked into his wrist. ”Now.”

A whisper of static, a twitch of a watch. The snipers should’ve been waiting for that signal like wolves at a bell. But... nothing happened. Ethan signaled again, this time the smirk was gone. Still nothing. He tried again, fingers jerking like a spoiled child testing a toy, and the silence answered him. The tiny network that seconds ago was a promised army had gone mute.

Ethan’s smile thinned, then split open into a panic that wasn’t pretty on him. ”What the—” He barked orders and cursed, but the radios stayed dead.

Viola’s mouth tilted in the smallest way, not a smile but a shift. ”You forgot something,” she said. ”I’m not just a courier, boys. I’m the whole operation half the time. I planned for this.” She tapped her wrist, the movement casual. ”Snipers, watchers, the lot—neutralized. I paid attention to redundancy. You thought you could buy muscle and skip brains.”

”W-Wait, let us explain..”

”No need for that. I will let this one slide once. Just finish the remaining payment and I will be on my way.”

Ethan’s composure cracked like the surface of a cheap bottle. A bead of sweat tracked his temple. ”You can’t—” He started, then the phone in his hand chimed; a transfer confirmation. He didn’t look at it with relief so much as at the sound that proved a small, necessary thing still worked for him.

Maximillian, furious and needing a show, kicked Xavier hard in the face. Xavier’s head lolled back, teeth clicking on impact. Max leaned close, breath sour with liquor and contempt. ”You’re gonna beg me,” he snarled. ”You’ll crawl. I’ll make sure you know what mercy costs.”

And then Xavier blinked, slow and clean as a blade sliding from a fold. He drew in a breath and his hands were suddenly fast, a motion practiced in an ugly, private life. He hauled the syringe from a hidden seam in his jacket the way someone pulls a pen from a breast pocket—efficient, unceremonious—and drove it up into Maximillian’s neck.