The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Harvesters Chapter One: The Winter Harvest

(An alien invasion story)

* * *

Author’s Notes: The following tale was inspired by numerous “Alien Invasion Themes” ranging from Dr. Who to the 1983 TV miniseries ‘V’. But it wasn’t until I obtained an old copy of Robert Heinlein’s ‘The Puppet Masters’ that I finally decided to sit down and write my own “invasion” tale.

…And just to clarify: Periods = Hours; Cycles = Days; Frontal (or Feeding) Orbs = Breasts; Frak = Fuck.

* * *

Prologue:

In the sleepy little township of Rossville Kansas, the traffic lights over the main intersection on Main Street shift from green to red. The streets are completely deserted at this early an hour, and the only sound is that of the brisk central plains wind, which is gently swaying the lamps from side to side. There’s a light coating of frost on nearly everything around, but the townsfolk of Rossville didn’t mind; they already lay fast asleep in their cozy little beds. But at some time around 3am, on this fateful night of February 12th; the peaceful small town silence is broken…

First there’s the low rumble of an unseen craft. Then a dark object appears over the clock tower at the center of town; the hum of its powerful turbine engines shaking the structures below. Those vibrations are so powerful that they cause chinaware to rattle inside cabinets, and silverware to jingle within drawers. Family pictures sway and then fall from interior walls, as anxious pets begin to pace back and forth. Dogs howl and whimper, cats cower beneath couches and beds, and horses whinny inside their barns. In the midst of this entire disturbance, those that manage to get out of their beds, find their cell phones dead and the lights in their homes only managing a pathetic flicker. The brave few that bother to look outside, eventually speak of a large vessel that’s nearly a football field in length and width, with its powerful searchlights scanning over the frosted ground below. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the vessel crept off; it’s low rumble fading off into the distance.

The story will make the headlines on the local six o’clock news, later in the day. But as days turn into a week and then weeks turn into a month, the stories about that mysterious humming sound in the middle of the night, eventually fade away. Oh sure; you might be at the local diner having a cup of coffee, and just happen to overhear a couple of the locals debating about what it was. But eventually, life in Rossville goes on as usual.

Taking life for granted would prove to be the Kansans first mistake…

* * *

It’s around 2:00 am in the morning. A light, late winter snow has just fallen on Shawnee County. Out at the old National Guard barracks on U.S. 75, the temperature is well below freezing. With the exception of a few on-duty guards, most of the cadets that are stationed here are already sound asleep in their toasty barracks.

At a location some thirty minutes west of the armory, a platoon of alien shock troopers are far from getting a good night’s sleep. In fact; they’re reviewing their orders from the ship captain. The time of attack has been carefully chosen, and with the exception of the nighttime sentries and a few more personnel manning the radar; there would be very little resistance upon their arrival. The attack would unfold in four carefully planned stages: block all outgoing transmissions; stun the guards into submission; swarm and then overtake the armory; and finally and most importantly; convert all inhabitants within —all of this to be accomplished with a minimum, or even no casualties. This will be one raid, among the several, that will take place throughout the following week and for several months afterward. The offensive strikes are planned-out to be low-key and swift, and positive results will be absolutely critical.

The first of these offensive sweeps will involve the armory; the second Brewers Air Force Base; the third to neutralize the state police barracks. (It’s obviously important to take out these three key locations first, as they would be the most likely to strike back). The fourth stage requires careful planning and will most likely be the biggest challenge of them all; to infiltrate society. Only when these tasks are completed, will the aliens be able to carry out the main and final phase; to setup a supply line and harvest the unsuspecting civilian population!

* * *

There’s something out there…

The sound is like a low droning rumble. It’s somewhat indistinct at first, but you can feel it in your feet and sense in your bones. The entire guard shack is starting to vibrate. They can feel it up in the communications tower as well.

Private Franklin Richards picks up his radio and calls the tower:

SSSKRSHTT —“Can you guys feel that?”

…The young man stares out into the night while waiting for a reply.

SSKRSHTT —“Guys are you awake up there? …Copy!”

…The radio remains silent, until a crackling noise finally emits from the other end.

SSSKRSHTT —“Yeah Frank, we feel it up here too …What the hell is that?”

SSSKRSHTT —“How the hell should I know? …You guys have the damned radar!”

…The private continues to study the skies above, searching for the source of the mysterious noise.

SSSKRSHTT — “We’re not pickin’ up anything on radar, but O’Neil just called from down in the catacombs …She said the needle on the accelerometer is goin’ bananas!”

SSSKRSHTT — “Bah! …What the hell does a damned meteorologist know, anyway?”

SSSKRSHTT — “Easy there, Frank; I think Sarge is down in the hole with O’Neil tonight.”

SSSKRSHTT — “Err, roger that …Suppose the boys from Brewer Air Force base are jest doin’ a low flyover?”

SSSKRSHTT — “Not scheduled to. But Johnny P. is tryin’ to reach the base, as we speak—Over…”

SSSKRSHTT — “Alright, just keep me posted, Mickey …Richard’s over-n-out!”

The rumbling sound is growing louder by the second. By now, not only are the windows rattling, but the reverberation is actually setting off car alarms in the parking area! Even the search dogs are circling around in their cages and barking wildly.

Private Richards reaches for the controls of his massive spotlight. But just as he cranks the handle to search the skies above, all of the yard-lights dim down low. Within a few more seconds, they darken completely. The soldier presses the “speak” button on his radio, but it no longer works. He immediately tosses the radio to the side, and focuses his attention on the malfunctioning spotlight…

“What in the hell is going on with this fucking thing?” the soldier wondered out loud.

By now, the armory and all the grounds that surround it are in total darkness. The confused Private is expecting the emergency generator to kick in at any moment, but what happens next is a total surprise…

Richards looks over to the west, and the sky suddenly erupts into a brilliant veil of white light. Within seconds, the blinding illumination fans out even wider, looking like a giant curtain that spans from the one end of the armory grounds to the other. It creeps over the landscape, illuminating everything within its path. It washes over the kennels, silencing the search dogs in an instant, and then sweeps over the west wing of the armory. White light flashes through all the windows of the formidable stone structure, suspending everything within. The menacing force of energy continues onward; flowing out over the yard and illuminating the guard shack to the east. That’s when the mysterious ray of light paralyzes Private Richards in place, right there behind his inoperative spotlight…

* * *

Orion shock troopers quickly fan out across the military base; their increasing numbers thoroughly combing the grounds for any animated survivors. They search the guard shacks, radio towers and all of the surrounding outbuildings, while others investigate any possible escape routes. Another unit marches up the front steps of the armory, carefully checking for laser-powered trip alarms, before stopping in front of the massive entrance doors. One of the lead troopers raises a weapon to his shoulder and fires at the reinforced lock. The stainless steel mortise latch mechanism is no match for the aliens’ powerful laser; it begins to sizzle and smoke until a burnt hole appears on its machined surface.

The lead trooper orders, “Remember; set all weapons on stun!”

…Several more fighters begin swinging a battering ram in unison. They build-up their momentum and bash the doors wide open with the heavy tool, instantly providing a path for the unit that waits at the ready behind them. The shock troopers then swarm the armory, running from room to room in the darkness—their night vision goggles showing them the way…

Multiple explosions of brilliant white light can be seen inside the various open doors that stretch throughout the length of the fortified building. The few unlucky soldiers that somehow managed to avoid the initial blast from the Chimera’s stasis ray soon stand motionless among the detonating flash grenades.

In less than ten minutes time, the Orion’s have successfully overtaken the National Guard armory. Once they receive the order to restore power, the shock troopers will inspect each and every bunk room, before finally making their way to the cafeteria area itself. It will be here, in the spacious mess hall that the aliens will execute the fourth and most important phase of the mission…

Two of the Orion soldiers approach the captain of the ship. They bow their heads in respect before one of them reports, “Captain; the humans within the sleeping quarters; the guard shacks; and the communications tower —all have been successfully neutralized. We are ready to proceed with the conversion phase of the mission.”

The commanding officer directs the first lieutenant, “Bring in the conversion chambers at once. We must process the humans in a very timely manner if we are to remain undetected. I want you to sort out the males from the females, placing them into separate lines. This will assure a proper inspection and provide us with the maximum yield from our target.

The first lieutenant bows her head in acknowledgement, before turning swiftly on her heels and marching off to carry out her task.

The captain then turns to the sergeant and instructs, “Make sure that your troopers have secured the rest of the building. I want all the exterior doors of this structure effectively barricaded; no one —and I mean absolutely no one gets out of here on their own two feet, do you understand?”

The sergeant bows her head in acknowledgement. “I’ve placed guards at all exits, Captain. I also have my search unit scouring the building for any lingering humans. I’m quite sure that even if they managed to avoid the flash grenades and the stasis beam, they won’t be very hard to locate at this point.”

The captain furrows a bushy eyebrow and advises, “If they don’t find any, then I would strongly suggest that you go out and look for them personally, Sergeant.”

The sergeant respectfully bows her head without any further questioning. Like the lieutenant before her, she turns swiftly on her heels and then marches off to carry out her given task.

In the meantime, Kiyar presses the mic on the lapel of his space suit. It’s time to contact the mothership and report what his team has found…

Within fifteen minutes, the three heavy conversion booths are rolled out from the belly of the collection ship, and set in place. Within another ten, their additional control consoles and power cords are hooked up and are ready for business…

* * *

Assuming control…

A pre-recorded audio message has started playing from a set of high-tech speakers. The manufactured voice sounds rather odd, yet the words are bewitching all the same:

“Attention all members of the National Guard …Attention all members of the National Guard …There is no need for alarm, as we mean you no harm.”

“As you hear these following words, let them deeply resonate within your opened minds: We have assumed control.”

“You now belong to the collective …You will be assimilated.”

“The time has come to accept your pre-chosen destiny …You will obey.”

“You will now report to the commissary …Please exit your rooms in a calm, but orderly fashion …You will proceed to the commissary with your fellow brothers and sisters.”

“You belong to the collective now …You will proceed as expected …You will be assimilated.”

“We have assumed control …You will be assimilated …You will obey.”

There’s a momentary pause, before the recording re-loops and repeats itself all over again.

Before long, National Guardsmen (and women alike) come streaming out from the bunk areas and monitor rooms. They shuffle along in a steady stream; their eyes at half-mast in a near catatonic half-sleep …Some are attired in fatigues, while others wear nothing more than their olive-green, “military issue” underwear. Waiting shock troopers gather up the neutralized humans, sorting them out by their sex, before filing them into long narrow rows. Other troopers usher the bedazzled humans into the humming conversion chambers. One by one, the humans are placed into one of the clear compartments, which are Plexiglas booths that stand-up a good seven feet from the floor. Each soldier is positioned on the center of the foot plates at the bottom of the chamber, before the perpendicular head unit is lowered onto the subjects head. These high-tech neurological units are electro-mechanical in nature, and feature input from the Orion’s most highly-touted expertise. Each crown —though easily adjustable— fits snuggly over the head of each subject. An elaborate harness of color-coded wires are attached to each crown and snake their way upward into the dome of each booth. It’s through these very cables, that the necessary information will be downloaded from the mothership Otrokár’s main database, and into the recipient’s consciousness.

Each time an unsuspecting human is ushered into a chamber, a metallic crown hydraulically lowers from above, automatically adjusting its band to the proper size. The Plexiglas door closes so that the process can begin. The recipient inside the capsule usually stares forward, a sleepy expression still showing on their face. But as the crown begins to probe their minds, a gradual change comes over each one. There might be a slight twitch of a finger or two; followed by the expected grunt or groan. Then, as the alien’s invasive hardware begins to search the humans mind and align their thoughts, the subject begins to tense; you might see it in the sudden arch of the back, or maybe the outward thrust of the chest. The toes might curl, or the eyelids might flutter… And then all at once their eyes go wide in alarm… They might scream out in horrified shock or maybe let out a moan of pleasure …And yet; as the subject’s mind begins to soften, and their thought processes begin to affiliate with the Orion’s programming, the tension in their bodies will take on a much more relaxed appearance.

The look of submission, perhaps.

…That’s when two robotic arms swing out from behind their heads. Constructed from stainless steel rods, the jointed arms appear awkward and clumsy, yet they move in precise increments, daintily going about their heads and inserting a pair of metallic ear-pods into the beneficiary’s ears.

With their metallic ear-pieces now thrumming inside their heads, the first of the glassy-eyed converts step from their booths and walk stiffly forward and away. Three new candidates are immediately ushered inside to take their place and the process continues again and again. The aliens operate with great efficiency; over the course of the next three hours, human after human are loaded inside, processed, and then unloaded to be sent on their way. Every last free-willed man and woman finds themselves being lead into the Orion’s mind-altering, Plexiglas booths.

…All except for two.

* * *

When the lights go out…

Beneath the armory is a series of fortified tunnels that had been built during the Cold War. These concrete passageways would undoubtedly provide enough protection from the Orion’s stasis ray, as it froze the armory’s sleeping occupants up above…

Payton O’Neil is a Private First Class, currently studying climatology for the military. The twenty one-year-old meteorologist had been working alongside fellow forecaster and Staff Sergeant Abigail “Abby” Whittaker. The pair had been stationed down in what’s known as “the catacombs” for the night and would be observing various weather-related instruments and recording the readings for government documentation.

It was just over an hour into their shift, when the soldiers felt the ground begin to shake. Noticing the needles bouncing around on the accelerometer, O’Neil quickly made a call to the communications tower. The young soldier had gotten only one reply in return, before the power went out and the line went dead. No power meant that the armory would go into “full lockdown” mode. Confident that the generator would eventually restore power, the pair insisted on fiddling with their equipment just to see what went wrong. When it became apparent that the power wouldn’t resume, the decision was made to stay put in the darkness for as long as they possibly could.

…Or at least until the intruders finally found their way into the catacombs. That’s when the soldiers’ survival instincts kicked into high gear!

The pair fled in the darkness to the boiler room nearby. It was here, that a series of metal air ducts directed both heat and air into the many rooms throughout the structure above…

“Alright, now look: it’s obvious that some serious shit is going down up there,” advised Sergeant Whittaker, (now directing her cadet towards a large maintenance panel in the ceiling). The young woman shone her flashlight on the perforated steel cover that’s just above. She then directs, “I want you to climb up into that heating duct and stay there, until you hear from me.”

A look of concern quickly spreads across Private O’Neil’s face. “Wait a minute; where in the hell are you going?”

The determined sergeant is already dragging a large metal desk directly beneath the panel, when she quickly replies, “I’m going to run through the tunnels and head for the storm drains. With a little luck, I’ll make it through to the other side and be able to make a break for the parking lot …If whoever, or whatever is actually blocking our transmissions, maybe I can get to my truck and drive far enough out of range to call for help. Maybe I’ll even get a better look at just what the hell is goin’ on up there!”

Private O’Neil questions, “Well, why don’t I just go with you?”

“You stay up in that damned air duct, O’Neil —and that’s a direct order!”

Sergeant Whittaker was already on top of the desk, and pulling the perforated panel downward. In a lowered voice, she urges the private to “Come on!” from above…

Private O’Neil gets a hoist around the waist from her superior, and the young woman manages to pull herself up into the metal ductwork. She rearranges her body inside, before turning her head to urge her comrade, “Be careful Sarge!”

…But it’s too late. Sergeant Whittaker has already closed the panel and vanished into the darkness.

—That was almost twenty minutes ago. Now the young soldier finds herself evading the enemy, and quietly peering through a louvered ventilation panel, that’s several floors above!

* * *

Lurking in the shadows…

Private O’Neal emits a loud gasp, before cutting the outburst short with a quick cup of her hand. From her hidden position up high within a heating duct, the young soldier looks on in confusion. Three of her male comrades were now being guided into some mysterious Plexiglas booths, right there in the mess hall below…

She can’t believe her eyes, as she witnesses grown men and women being shuffled about like livestock into different rows. They all appear to be in a daze and show very little or even no reaction to the intruders that are arranging them.

…And then there are the intruders themselves: they sort of resemble people. Not normal ones by any means, but somewhat human-like only with a distinctive green skin color. They all have purplish lips, and the hair on their heads is shoe-polish black. The males, (who are all quite muscular in build), are attired in some type of metallic gray coveralls. The females are wearing slinky white cat suits with puffy winter jackets over them. The heavy coats are trimmed with thick fur, (much like the kind that ski bunnies would wear). Their hoods are pulled up over the helmets on their heads, and they have large goggles with dark lenses covering their eyes. Each carries a shortened, light saber-like weapon within their hands. (For some unexplained reason, O’Neil can’t help but picture them as a hit squad of Russian descent; sent out on some secret mission for the KGB, and chasing 007 down some snowy landscape, only to succumb to their ultimate and impending death!)

—Ahem.

…So in conclusion: Just what kinda invasion force is this?

Down below, the doors on the booths suddenly reopen, and O’Neil redirects her attention from the green-skinned ski-babes, to her fellow comrades. Three more captives step out and walk stiffly forward. She can see that their expressions are noticeably blank. Yet these soldiers seem to walk rather proudly and with a newfound purpose. It’s as if they’d somehow accepted plans for some unknown mission that needs to be carried out.

…Just what the fuck is goin’ on here?

Expecting the worst, O’Neil repositions herself in the ductwork to get a better look. She can see that three more prisoners are being led into the Plexiglas chambers, (this time being two males and one female). She expels a breath and focuses her attention, watching as the intruders align their captives’ legs and strap them in. Next they make some minor adjustments to the wired crowns now lowering over the humans’ heads. The Plexiglas doors close with a hiss and the soldiers within arch their backs in sudden reaction. Whatever is pulsing through their bodies is causing the soldiers’ hands to jerk about at their sides. The female in particular, seems to contort her frame against her confinements. The brunette arches her back once and thrusts her breasts outward to their fullest extent; their bountiful curves stretching the material of her olive-drab T-shirt to its outer-most limits!

…O’Neal takes another deep breath and holds it in, trying desperately not to allow a scream!

Then all at once; the tension seems to lift from their bodies. The victims’ postures seem to take on a more relaxed appearance …That’s when two robotic arms unexpectedly swing out from behind their heads and clamp something in place!

The Plexiglas doors hiss open and three more of Payton’s comrades stiffly step forward: their eyes now noticeably glazed over, their expressions showing a calm look of acceptance. On each of their ears are these silver, clam-shaped pods. A single green light flashes on each side.

…Three more unknowing victims are quickly ushered in to take their place.

The soldier looks on with mounting terror. She mouths the words; Oh-my-God… when she witnesses the end results. …It must be some sort of mind control!

With her legs starting to cramp from her squatting position, the private carefully maneuvers herself around into a different arrangement. She gets down on her hands and knees, just as quiet as she can be. From her hidden spot behind the louvered panel, she begins to study the unidentified enemy just a little more closely…

The male aliens are much taller, and far more muscular than even the most physically fit of her fellow soldiers. Their hair is crudely trimmed in a “bowl-cut” fashion, and the same silver-colored ear pods cover their ears. The brutes sort of lumbered around rather clumsily, looking like the brooding apes that they are. Occasionally, a few of them let out these chauvinistic-sounding grunts, whenever a half-dressed human female shuffles past them in a daze…

…Fucking pigs.

The female commandos, (which seem to outnumber the males), almost appear more human, in comparison. Their cute little bottoms are all sheathed in stretchy white pants, which seem to keep them poised for action—regardless of what kind of stance they’re in. On their feet are high-top-style combat boots; their black surfaces impeccably polished to near gleaming condition. Some of them are still carrying the spacey-looking batons that she noticed before. She tries to make a quick study of the guard that’s currently standing below her position, and watching over a row of her mesmerized female comrades. Moving her head at more of an angle, she can see that the weapon appears to be one part wand and one part hand-held scanner. At the light-saber end is a clear cylindrical tube that’s approximately a foot-and-a-half long. There’s a molded rubber hand grip on the other end, with a small readout window at the top of the handle. It looks like a touch screen that contains a keypad for controls. Some of the other aliens are going about the entranced female victims, and scanning the sabers over their faces and bodies. When the scanning is complete, the aliens would monitor the results on the readout screen, and then occasionally lead that female to yet another line.

…God, I wish Sarge was here to see this! …Hopefully she’s made it to the parking lot by now.

O’Neil carefully maneuvers herself around in the ductwork once again, (her palms and knees are literally killing her at this point) …It is then, that four of the female troopers carry a large metal ring out into the mess hall. The chrome-plated girdle is the same circumference as a hula-hoop, but appears to be six inches high, and has walls that are several inches thick. There are various blinking lights around its plated edges.

…Now what the fuck are they doing down there?

There’s suddenly an audible beep and the entire group of invaders pause in place. They remain frozen like statues; the LED lights on their ear-pods blinking red in unison. The pods beep a second time, and that’s when the invaders collectively unfreeze. One of the female troopers then announces, “Clearing the immediate area for Princess Theramea’s arrival!”

O’Neal watches with anticipation—her heart nearly beating out of her chest—as a wall of smoke rises from the parameter of the ring. Dazzling arrays of colored lights begin to illuminate the circle as well, as the troopers around the room begin to fix themselves at attention.

As the brilliant lights continue to illuminate the room, the young soldier’s expression brightens in amazement. Payton’s mind can’t quite comprehend what her eyes are now seeing:

…A cloaked figure soon emerges from the glowing column of light. Although somewhat indistinguishable at first, it soon becomes apparent that this mysterious individual just might be the aliens’ leader!

* * *

Arrival of the princess…

From somewhere beyond the settling haze, someone orders, “All hail Princess Theramea!”

The brooding ape-men and the green-skinned snow bunnies alike, all bow forward in unison and then slowly rise upward. Then, from within the crowd of aliens, a hooded figure steps forth. He lowers his cowl, revealing a head of close-cropped, silvery-gray hair. His face is weathered and deeply lined from age, while his strides are slow and deliberate like that of an elder statesman. The old man smiles, as if proud to show off his full row of bleached-white teeth.

“Ah Your Highness,” he welcomed, “I’m quite glad you could join us. Please come and observe our latest catch.”

The man waves a meaty hand in the direction of the prized captives, and then leaves it there to linger for a moment in an open invitation…

The preoccupied leader ignores the invite at first; choosing instead to study the rather simplistic and uninspiring construction of the room. A brief moment later, she shakes her head in disappointment and silently reflects: …Such boring and unimaginative creatures, these poor humans are.

-Sigh!

Meanwhile, from her hidden location above, Private O’Neal studies her latest opponent and her provocative attire. Without a doubt; this is no wholesome, story-book princess. The mysterious new arrival is dressed in such a ridiculous getup, that she looks more like a well-paid dominatrix than a noblewoman. She appears to be an astounding six feet tall, with much help from her high-rise stiletto-heeled boots. The woman is bound in a black leather bustier that’s cinched severely inward at the waist and features crisscrossing laces in blood red. Two under-wire cups, (also red in color), uplift and mold her breasts into two bulging and quite delectable mounds. Her somewhat thick legs are wrapped in matte-black latex, which clings to her limbs like a second skin. Dangling from her neck is a feathered red boa, while a flamboyant black cape hangs down from her shoulders to nearly touch the floor. A full complement of jeweled rings and bracelets brilliantly sparkle from her wrists and fingers.

…And the hair!

The “do” on this chick nears diva-like proportions; it’s long and shimmering black, with tapered ringlets that dance around her shoulders and breasts as she walks. A thick roll of elegantly braided locks circles around her head, serving double duty to keep an elaborate gold headpiece held within its proper place. The intricate looking crown contains rubies and sapphires of varying sizes, and the piece as a whole appears to be nearly priceless, (even by Sotheby’s standards).

The pretentious female flips her feathered boa back over her shoulder, before sauntering forth. There’s a certain power and confidence that this female exudes when she walks; it’s clearly evident in the cadence of her steps and in the way she moves her body. And with each of those movements, her skin-tight cat suit emits these faint little squeaks, (making a rather odd accompaniment to the constant echo of her clicking stilettos).

…Although the bitch is admittedly sexy, O’Neal can’t help but sense this sinister, almost “Svengali-like” air of mystery that surrounds her. Maybe it’s the ominous sparkle within her piercing black eyes, or the riding crop that’s held tightly in hand...

“I see you’ve made rather quick work of these pathetic human soldiers,” the creature observed while strutting across the floor.

The old man that had lowered his cowl earlier is quick to answer, “Yes, Your Highness; I’m afraid they were no match for our superior weaponry.”

“Of course they weren’t,” acknowledged the princess before adding, “…they rarely are.”

…She finally comes to a stop in front of him and commends, “Keep up the impressive work and my mother just might promote you to Admiral of the entire fleet.”

She taps the old man in the chest with her crop to further stress the point. The captain flashes his brilliant smile in return and then bows his head quite appreciatively.

“Now what do you have for me, captain?”

The Orion’s latest harvest stands waiting in a drill line, just a few feet ahead. The pair takes a few steps further and Princess Theramea begins assessing the fresh crop of female cadets with an experienced eye...

“They all have such remarkably odd coloration.”

Kiyar nervously remarks, “Ah y-yes, your highness; it’s due to the pigmentation of their skin.”

…The wise old man considers explaining the unusual pigmentation of the humans flesh, but thinks better of it. Their skin color could always be changed, if it were necessary.

“Not a bad yield, for a couple of period’s worth of work,” Theramea observed, now sizing-up the first female in line. She’s quite plain looking, with a rounded face and a soft and somewhat pear-shaped body. The soldier has a drab-brown t-shirt on top, while olive-green boxers cover her bottom. The leader looks-on rather unimpressed…

“The submission ray was able to penetrate both floors and managed to freeze most of them,” explained the elder captain. “We used flash grenades to suspend any stragglers.”

“Yes, well…we certainly don’t want to damage the goods,” reminds the female leader, before moving on to the next captive inline. This cadet is attired the same as the last, but has a squared jaw and reddish-brown hair that’s tied into a bun. She was big boned and has the rather husky build of a mid-western farm girl. (And from the looks of her bulky shoulders, she’d spent a few summers throwing around a hay bale or two!)

Theramea frowns and moves onward. She passes several more female cadets with similar bodies, casually glancing at them with disinterest. At one point she even comments, “They all have such manly-looking physiques.”

Kiyar remarks, “These are military trainees after all, Your Highness.”

“Yes, well …if I ever want to sleep with something that looks like it might possess a nice set of frontal orbs along with a set of balls, then I’d surely be able to find one in this lot…”

The captain of the ship tries to explain that they weren’t really expecting to find any (what humans often referred to as)—“Supermodels” …Yet, his comments fall on deaf ears. The Royal Highness seems to have taken-up interest in a bedazzled young lady, whom appears to be of Mexican ancestry…

“Hmm; …now you might do,” Theramea considered out loud. The alien reaches out and lift’s the dog tags up from the soldier’s ample bosom. “It says here; Private… Anita… Juarez…”

…Private Juarez is an adorable, but somewhat petite young woman that’s barely five feet tall. The Latina has cocoa-hued skin, as well as a cute and perky build, (which can clearly be seen beneath her clingy olive-green tank top and Government Issue briefs). She has shiny black hair that’s pulled tight to the back of her head, while a beauty mark dots the middle of her right cheek. Her nose is rather thick and is rounded off on the tip, while her lips were full and supple. A set of long flirty lashes frame her glazed brown eyes, (eyes that don’t manage a blink, even as Theramea starts groping her breasts…)

“Mmm; very nice Private Juarez,” the alien leader purred, “Very niiiice indeed.”

…Theramea continues to enjoy the feel of the soldier’s tits within her cupped hands. She judges their firmness; quickly evaluating the size and shape before calculating the cadet’s overall worth in her head. “This one will surely do,” she concludes, before releasing the Latina’s breasts. They jiggle back in place, as Private Juarez stares forward with indifference…

“…And what do we have here?” Theramea asked, as she steps in front of the next catch. This soldier is a dark-skinned African-American woman, with powerful legs and a nicely sculpted backside. Her torso is trim and tight, and she has the typical physique of a track runner. The woman’s black hair is cut short into a “bob” style, which not only frames her defined cheekbones quite nicely, but draws further attention to her full and generous lips. Her eyes are coal-black and they look glassy and distant…

…Theramea palms the soldier’s dog tags and reads aloud, “Corporal Shawna Turner.”

...The alien runs a hand across the Corporal’s shoulder blade, and then down over her arm, enjoying the feel of Shawna’s firm bicep beneath her touch. “You’re a dark-skinned one,” the princess mused, “…And a powerful woman too.”

This is good. Theramea likes to be in control of powerful women.

…Corporal Turner had been taken in her sleep. Like so many of her female comrades, the soldier slept bra-less. Her nipples are already pressing lightly at the fabric of her olive-green t-shirt. Theramea couldn’t help but noticed this. The alien cracks a devilish grin, teasingly dragging her riding crop across both of the tips, before moving onward. She leaves a pair of straining nipples in her wake….

Throughout this entire time, Private O’Neal continues to watch in horror from her position behind the louvered cover. She observes in total disgust, as this perverse female gropes and prods at her fellow comrades. She has no doubt that her fellow soldiers are under the influence of mind control. …They all just stand there, unwavering …staring off into space without as much as a blink. Once brave soldiers now reduced to mindless zombies. She keeps urging her friends on beneath her breath …Waiting for that one brave soul that would break out of her hypnotized stupor and immediately drop-kick the nearest green-skinned guard!

…God I hope Sarge made it out of here to get some help!

The female leader is inspecting yet another cadet. O’Neil doesn’t know her name, but she’d noticed her around the base more than once. The brunette is a shapely little thing that regularly worked out to keep herself fit. Occasionally they’d pass each other at the gym entrance; she’d just be walking out as Payton was heading in. She’d always hold the door open for her while flashing an optimistic smile. The gal is very pretty too, with greenish-grey eyes; an adorably-cute face; and with dark-brown tresses that curve inward at the nape of her neck.

…Now she looks so helpless just standing there, while this maniac methodically rotates her around at the waist to critique her backside. She wouldn’t be disappointed either: the brunette has one of those tight little athletic asses that one could bounce a quarter off and send it ricocheting across the room.

Theramea reaches out and grips the bubbled curves of the cadet’s tush and gives them a good squeeze. “Mm-hmm; nice ’n tight; just as I thought it would be…”

From just beside her, Kiyar flashes his own toothy grin full of approval. He likes it whenever the princess is pleased.

Before Theramea can carry on with her perverse advances, there’s a scuffle from somewhere just outside of the room. Her glorious headpiece turns sharply, and her eyes glare in the direction of the disturbance. Three of her shock troopers are roughly shoving along a female soldier who’s attired in green fatigues.

It’s Sergeant Whittaker.

…There’s a loud gasp from behind a louvered air duct cover that nobody seems to hear.

* * *

A brave soldier’s last stand...

Sergeant Whittaker had done her best to fight off her alien captors, but her efforts proved to be futile. Now the belligerent soldier is being forcefully escorted through the cafeteria, where she’s eventually brought before the almighty queen.

One of the three shock troopers steps forward and bows her head. The sergeant straightens and reports, “Your Highness; we found this one attempting to start a motor vehicle outside. She agreed to come peacefully, but then kicked my weapon from my hand and knocked me to the ground. She then retrieved the wand and struck Gigan in the head with it.”

…Sergeant Whittaker cracks a cocky smirk at the recent memory.

The princess narrows her eyes at the fugitive, before turning to inspect her injured soldier. Gigan, (who’s a rather large “ape of a male”) stares down at the floor in total silence. He’s holding a rag to his head to stop the bleeding, but a single bead of dark green liquid still manages to run down his cheek.

Theramea places her long fingers at his thick jaw line and carefully turns his head to examine the deep gash. “Let me see it …Oh my goodness; I guess she did get the best of you, didn’t she?”

…The wounded trooper expels a grunt in sour agreement.

-THWACK!

…The disappointed leader had viciously slapped the trooper across the face. The violent force of the impact is so swift and so sudden, that it jerks his bulky head off to the side.

The room goes deathly quiet.

“You stupid troll! …How could you let yourself be tricked by a lowly human? You’re nothing more than an incompetent ogre, who doesn’t deserve the honor of serving our great queen!”

The dishonored soldier swallows hard in his thick, muscular throat, before lowering his head in total shame...

The princess raises her hand to find a splotch of the soldier’s blood, now staining her skin. She extends the soiled hand out to her side in a pretentious manner and makes a disgusted look. Without so much as uttering a word, one of her other male troopers quickly comes to her aid. The male drops to a knee and thoroughly cleans-off her finger with his own kerchief.

…Meanwhile, Sergeant Whittaker has been studying her comrades all around her. They make no effort to save her. In fact; they act as if she doesn’t even exist. They all just stand there expressionless; their vacant eyes staring dreamily off into the distance, but seemingly at nothing in particular. And they all have these weird-looking caps affixed to their ears, with little green LED lights.

…Had these intruders somehow managed to enslave them?

Sergeant Whittaker nods her head towards the row of bedazzled women just beside her and immediately questions, “What in the hell have you done to them?”

The princess turns to the angry soldier and expels a deep breath to signify her annoyance. “You aren’t going to bore me with your trivial minutiae, are you earth girl?”

The insulted soldier throws her captor’s attitude right back at her. “You go straight to hell, you—you …pompous bitch!”

The princess merely smiles at the verbal outburst. And although her irritated expression has somewhat softened, the sharp glare of her eyes never really leaves. That’s when the royal silently concludes: …This is a spirited one. She needs to be broken down; if not for the morale of my troops, then most certainly for her own good...

Theramea walks over to the same athletic brunette that she’d been assessing before she was so rudely interrupted. Private Melinda Patterson stands trance-like, with no particular expression, and with her arms hanging limply at her sides. (The cadet hadn’t made the slightest movement, and remains in the exact same position since her keeper had left her) …The princess gently brushes an errant lock of hair away from the young woman’s temple and asks, “Are we having fun, dear?”

…Private Patterson just stares ahead in silence, unable to offer an opinion, while Sergeant Whittaker swallows deep in her throat in reaction.

The princess continues with her delicate ministrations. She brushes a finger ever-so-lightly along the cadet’s cheek, admiring the softness of her skin. She then asks, “Doesn’t she look so pretty just standing there? …So helpless and oh sooo very tempting…”

…The cruel leader then drops her hand, allowing it to trail lightly over the girl’s spine until it finds the deep curve at the small of her back. Said hand explores even further, traveling down over the curvaceous humps of the cadet’s bottom. Theramea cracks an evil smirk as she gives the tush a little pinch.

…Private Patterson slightly wobbles in place, but continues to stare off in a daze; the young cadet seemingly unaware and completely unaffected by the alien’s advances.

Sergeant Whittaker warns, “You leave her alone, you filthy skank!” …The mortified soldier attempts to physically lash out at the princess, but the powerful grip of the male troopers beside her, easily hold the woman back. The one female shock trooper raises her compliance wand and gets ready to make a pass!

“NO!” the princess yelled, “I want to personally break this one down!”

…The trooper refrains, but she remains at the ready and in a braced stance.

The confrontational human carries on with her struggle against her captor’s hold and continues to ask, “Tell me dammit! …Tell me what you’ve done to them!”

“Shut up, you blabbering trollop!” scolded the leader, “Or I’ll put you under even deeper than they are!”

…One of the male guards sneers at the thought.

The princess paces back and forth in front of the human female, sometimes tapping her riding crop against her palm in thought. After a pensive moment, the leader steps directly in front of her captive. The creature lowers her head and glares through her thick black bangs, making her eyes seem even darker than before…

“So you’ve convinced yourself that you’re a warrior, eh?” …Theramea’s voice had turned deep and sultry. She pushes her crop underneath the soldier’s chin and forces it upward, then slowly drags it along her jawline. “…I must admit; you’re a rather handsome-looking thing —maybe even too attractive. You might be worth more as a whore than a converted warrior…”

Sergeant Whittaker is trying to turn her head away from her captor in disgust. Yet something is persuading her to pay attention all the same…

“But my friends,” the woman struggled to get out, “…My comrades?”

“I can assure you that your fellow soldiers are perfectly fine,” Theramea promised. “In fact; I guess they’re what you humans would refer to as; —at ease.”

The sergeant confesses, “But I don’t understand; what is it that you want from us?”

“Oh, but you will my dear,” assured the princess, “…All in due time.”

…Theramea is looking directly into Sergeant Whittaker’s uncertain stare. The evil alien has these deep black eyes that are cold and lifeless, much like those of a Great White. Eyes entirely capable of opening locked doors and releasing long-held secrets, while stirring the restless soul. These bottomless holes are burrowing deep into the soldier’s mind; slowly entrusting her faith and inviting her to come and swim within their deepest depths.

…Sergeant Whittaker expels a soft breath of calmness.

Princess Theramea reaches out and lift’s the dog tags up from the soldier’s rising and falling chest. She reads aloud, “Sergeant —Abigail —Whittaker.”

…The alien places the dog tags back to the sergeant’s bosom, gently rubbing her finger tips over their shiny surfaces. Her hand continues downward, lightly brushing over the upsweep of the woman’s breast. It serves as a quick test and it’s a trick that Theramea uses often...

Sergeant Whittaker doesn’t bother to challenge her captor’s arousing touch. She just passed the first test.

The alien raises a pointed finger and traces the outline of Abigail’s lips with one of her blood-red fingernails. In a bittersweet tone the princess questions, “I bet they all call you Abby in private, don’t they?”

Seemingly caught up within her keeper’s seductive stare once again; Sergeant Whittaker’s deep breathing has noticeably slowed. She struggles just to gasp out a simple, “…Yesss.”

Theramea continues with her assault on the soldier’s senses. She lightly runs an index finger down along the woman’s jaw line and seductively whispers against her ear, “Abby, my dear; …why don’t you just give in to me? …It must be so hard for you to resist right now.”

Sergeant Whittaker flutters her eyelashes. Somewhere between the alien’s convincing words and the questionable lies, it is getting harder to resist …Looking into the creature’s cold gaze, is like walking toward a vortex that suddenly sucks you in; a fathomless black pit that’s deeper and darker than any ocean …They say that the eyes are windows to the soul, then looking into these eyes is like staring into the depths of hell itself. And somewhere in that dismal underworld, this egotistical beast would be seated upon her throne with pride, waiting to welcome you in with open arms…

Drifting outside of her protective shell for a moment, the sergeant hears the creature gently whispering, “Imagine a much simpler life …One of pleasure and servitude …No more hate …No more wars …No more worries...”

The sergeant batted her eyelashes again, only much more slowly …Could it all be true? …Such a life seems almost unfathomable …No more worries …No more wars …Just a simple life of pleasure and servitude …Like utopia right here on Earth.

The alien leader presses, “Would you like to live such a life?”

Sergeant Whittaker’s eyebrows furrowed and released, then dipped back down again, indicating her confusion and possible indecision…

“…But how?”

Theramea quickly presses her fingers to the human’s lips. “Shhh; …no more questions.” …The princess then leans in close and breaths upon the human’s ear…

Somewhere deep in the abyss, Abby felt that breath. She found it so warm and amazingly sensual that her own breath a caught.

…The alien disburses a knowing laugh.

In a drowsy voice, Abby struggles to gasp out the question, “W-What are you trying to d-do to me?”

“…Shhh,” the alien reminded with another whisper.

…The gentle wisp of air tickled Abby’s neck, forcing the woman to shiver.

The alien flicked her lizard-like tongue out at the human’s right ear. It was long and thin, and danced about on the woman’s lobe, much like a flame at the end of a wick.

Abby hunches her shoulders, as the creature’s tongue tickles a strategic point beneath her ear. A sudden jolt of sexual energy shot directly from her neck to her g-spot; the results were instantaneous—the woman draws another deep breath and shudders in place, her clit twitching in delight!

…Theramea continues to suggestively whisper, “Accept the darkness Abby …Just let yourself fade away.”

Sergeant Whittaker is going so deep now, that her frame is slightly wavering from side-to-side. And although she’s lightly murmuring the words that she’s hearing, the sentences are incomplete and nearly undecipherable.

“…Accept the darkness …Fade …Fading away…”

“That’s it Abby; sometimes you have to lose yourself, in order to find out who you really are…”

“Lose yourself …The darkness…”

“We’re going to take good care of you, Abby…”

“Take good care …Accept the darkness …Fading away.”

“You are very beautiful, Abby …Black is beautiful …Welcome the darkness, Abby.”

“Abby’s beautiful …Welcome the beautiful Blackness…”

With her vision darkening, and her perception sinking well into the abyss, Abigail Whittaker reviews the last few thoughts in her mind: …Black is truly beautiful …It’s the color that sticks out most prominently in my mind …I welcome the blackness...

There’s a very hollow SNAP of the fingers and Abby’s head drops forward…

* * *

Private O’Neil had witnessed the entire induction with mounting horror. Still crouched within the air duct and hidden behind a grill up high on the wall, she’d watched in total disbelief, as the witch slowly entranced the only other conscious human being in the entire room. Sergeant Whittaker just stood there; still as a statue, her mouth hanging slack …Her mind being read like the pages of an opened book. And with one snap of the fingers she was out…

…FOR GODSAKES, ABBY; WAKE UP! …FUCKING WAKE UP, DAMMIT!

But O’Neil’s silent pleas are completely useless. She’s just a mere mortal, and nothing more.

…Then, in a totally unexpected act of violence, the alien yanks the sergeant’s shirt wide open; the sheer force of the act sends an entire row of buttons flying across the floor. Now parting the two halves of the ripped uniform wide, Theramea reveals Abby’s very non-regulation, pink push-up bra …A devilish smile forms across the alien leader’s face.

Theramea slides the little bar back on Sergeant Whittaker’s military issue belt buckle, before unbuttoning the flap on her camouflage pants. After a few plucks of the buttons, the two halves of her fly part ways, and the baggy pants immediately drop to the floor. Mid-rise boyshorts in matching pink are immediately revealed...

The wicked princess runs a long index finger over the satiny surface of her captive’s underwear. The material looks luxuriously smooth and the texture feels amazingly soft beneath her touch, (so unlike the firm latex that she’s currently wearing). Theramea imagines how slippery material such as this might feel against her own sensitive clit. The creature quickly shrugs off a chill at just the mere thought of it…

In the air duct above, tears begin to fill Private O’Neil’s eyes. She’s witnessing the invader now rubbing a middle finger up and down the cleft-like imprint in the bottom of Abby’s panties. There’s already a trace of moisture beginning to show in the material, and this only encourages the alien to press her finger in even deeper…

Sergeant Whittaker begins to wobble in place from her keeper’s advances.

…Kiyar clears his throat just beyond the princess. Theramea hears the abrupt sound and immediately turns her head, catching the officer’s look of impatience…

“Please, Your Highness; …the plan was to be swift and thorough. Now is not the time…”

The princess gives Kiyar a dirty look and expels a deep breath to express her annoyance. She looks back at Sergeant Whittaker, flashing a crooked grin, and then leans in to whisper, “Time to go, my sweet …But I promise that I’ll be seeing you a little bit later.”

The royal angles the woman’s head to the side, studying the soldier’s attractive features. The alien flickers her forked tongue out in the air, teasingly licking the woman’s jawline. Said tongue retracts back into her mouth just as quickly as it had appeared.

…Poor Abby remains asleep, seemingly undisturbed by the alien’s affections.

Theramea pivots swiftly on her heels, causing her cape to billow outward as she turns. She pauses in front of the captain. In a boastful tone the princess advises, “…And that’s how you bring a minor conflict to a swift conclusion!”

The captain bows his head and says, “Indeed, Your Highness.”

The princess orders, “Kiyar, see to it that this so-called “soldier” is loaded up, along with Patterson; Juarez; Turner and maybe these others, (now nodding her head at the pear-shaped woman and some of the thicker cadets). Perhaps we can put some of these bigger ones to work in the dilithium mines.”

And with that, Theramea click-clacks her heeled boots back towards the transport area, casually glancing over her shoulder at her selection as she walks past. Four female soldiers are already waiting with the teleportation ring, from which she had come. The princess nods to one of the prettier green-skinned guards, before pausing for a second glance …This particular Orion female is one that she’d engaged in sexual intercourse with, back on the home planet.

The princess immediately cast a knowing glance at the guard, locking the soldier’s gaze in place. The seductress drew her fingers lightly across the female’s skin. With just her touch alone, Theramea shot an electric pulse of sexual energy that rocked the guard to her very core. Her eyes rolled back into their lids, as she bolts upright in her boots—her body beginning to eerily sway from side to side. And then, just as quick as the intoxicating sensation had started, the temptress withdraws her hand from the pretty guard’s cheek!

As Theramea steps forward into her teleportation ring, a twisted smile creeps across her face. When the smoke and the radiant light have finally cleared, the princess has left behind yet another enchanted victim…

* * *

Stiff as a board…

Private O’Neil watches from above, as alien forces start wheeling in what appear to be upright shipping carts. One by one, the shock troopers start loading up the chosen females and begin rolling them through the cafeteria. Cadets and Lieutenants, who once stood proud to serve, now stand as frozen statues alike; their legs pressed tightly together; their hands placed stiffly at their sides. Their blank stares gazing wide-eyed into the distance, yet they see absolutely nothing.

Before long, they load-up Sergeant Whittaker. Like the others before her, she stands stiff as a board, as two shock troopers tilt her body back and then wheel her away…

It’s a scene that weighs heavily on Private O’Neil’s conscience, and it would be a sight that she’s not likely to forget…

* * *

The first signs of the New World Order…

The aliens disappear into the darkness, nearly as quickly as they’d arrived. By now, the cramped-up Private O’Neil had carefully backed her way out of the heating duct and returned to the catacombs. Growing more concerned by the minute, the soldier attempts to shake off her fatigue and limps her way into the commissary. It’s in here that she finds her still enthralled comrades, who remain standing still, with their little silver ear-pods clamped over their ears. Not a sound breaks the eerie silence, save for the intermittent ‘beep’ that would emit from the various sets of ear pieces…

Private O’Neil walks among her silent comrades. Their vacuous stares seem distant, and their reactions are indifferent as she passes them by. The woman comes upon a male soldier that she recognizes from her unit. She slows her pace to wave a hand in front of his seemingly blank expression, (he remains unresponsive to O’Neil’s actions, of course).

Suddenly, everyone’s ear-pods ‘beep’ in unison. As if interconnected in some weird way, the entranced soldiers break free from their suspended state, and begin walking off in opposite directions! Most of the recruits go back to their sleeping quarters, while the others that were formerly on duty, return to their appropriate stations.

Private O’Neil stands among her comrades as they side-step around her. Some brush mindlessly past the soldier, as if she doesn’t even exist. The terrified woman yells out, “Don’t you see what they are doing to you? …Can’t you understand what’s happened here?”

The young woman grabs the meaty arms of a male cadet who just happens to be passing by in his underwear. “WAKE UP DAMMIT! …WAKE UP!”

…The soldier just continues to march forward with disinterest.

Private O’Neil clutches her hair in despair and yells, “Why won’t you people listen to me?”

The determined woman continues to warn her associates for several harrowing minutes; at one point, even attempting to yank the silver pods off the ears of an unsuspecting guardsman. Yet it’s no use; the pods seem permanently affixed to the man’s ears!

The soldier finally makes a b-line for the communications tower, where she finds radio-men Mickey Conrad and Johnny P. Wilson…

“Guys; …oh god am I glad to see you two!”

…At first, the two men simply go about returning to their equipment; turning various knobs; adjusting numerous dials; and flipping an assortment of toggle switches. It seems to be “business as usual” for them.

It’s only when Private O’Neil grabs one of the men by the arm and violently shakes it about, that he finally reacts. The National Guardsman turns his head and looks up to see what the commotion is all about. At first, his facial expression seems to twist, as if failing to recognize the woman. But then a change takes place; his ear-pods flash red and emit a ‘beep’ …The radioman’s head locks in place and his facial expression starts to change. He slowly raises a hand, pointing a finger in positive recognition, and then says in an accusatory voice, “Fugitive…”

Johnny P. slowly turns in his chair right beside his co-worker. His silver ear-pods emit a ‘beep’ as well and the man reiterates, “…Fugitive.”

…Both of the men’s voices sound more digitized, than human.

Private O’Neil takes a step back in horror …Oh No.

Mickey Conrad rises-up slowly from his chair, and in with an awkward sounding voice goes on to instruct, “You must surrender …You must submit to conversion …You are in need of an upgrade.”

…Johnny P. had risen right beside him to enforce, “All will serve the queen.”

Private O’Neil immediately turns to run.

The terrified woman flees down the metal stairs of the communications tower. She continues to run through the main hall of the armory, where she passes former foes that are now pointing at her and drowsily mumbling, “Fugitive” …Just ahead of her, two male guards with rifles braced across their chests block the entrance door. These two men raise their weapons and in drone-like voices they order, “Stop or we’ll shoot.”

KA-POW! —KA-POW!

—Two shots suddenly ring out; the bullets ricochet off the stone walls just beside the soldier!

Private O’Neil ducks in reaction before yelling out, “HOLY SHIT!” …The terrified woman immediately bolts in the opposite direction and quickly considers the tunnels!

* * *

Run for your life…

Private O’Neil flies through the tunnels like the proverbial “bat out of hell.” The constant pounding of her booted footsteps, echo like thunder against the fortified tunnel walls. The soldier never once looks back, and only comes to a stop when the tunnel divides in two. Payton looks between the two routes, knowing that she’s got to think quickly…

…Fuck!

The private bites her lower lip with indecision, before quickly speeding off into the left corridor.

Moments later, the sound of additional footsteps echo throughout the tunnel. A group of soldiers suddenly appear at the very split that Private O’Neil had just encountered. One of them raises a hand to signal for silence...

The rest of the unit pauses in place, listening to the darkness.

“This one,” the leader grunted, before urging his men to continue their pursuit. The four soon disappear into the darkened tunnel.

Meanwhile, Payton O’Neil is running through the second half of the tunnel with the same swiftness and desperation as she had in the first. The determined soldier manages to dodge some cracks and side-steps a few patches of ice within her chosen path, (nearly slipping on a few). Still, the gritty female pays these hazards very little mind, as she continues onward with her daring escape!

* * *

The light at the end of the tunnel...

It isn’t long before Private O’Neil finds herself fast-approaching the western entrance of the tunnel. Although the soldier realizes there could be a thick layer of ice at the very end, she doesn’t allow the thoughts to slow her down. The woman takes a daring flying leap at the very end, effectively jumping over the solid mass of ice!

…O’Neil lands with a violent tumble on the other side. The soldier rolls to a stop and immediately grabs her ankle in pain.

“Ngghhhh!” Payton groaned while gritting her teeth, (she’s trying her damnedest not to scream out from the searing pain!) …With tears welling up in her eyes once again, the woman rolls from side-to-side, clutching her throbbing ankle. The soldier crawls around for a bit on her hands and knees, allowing herself just a brief moment to settle down...

…Come on, Payton—suck it up! You’re a damned soldier for Christ’s sake!

The soldier continues to sob, but knows that the best thing she can do for herself, is get the hell out of there! …O’Neil finally hoists herself up, brushes herself off, and then limps out across the grounds. She barely makes a couple of steps, before the yard is illuminated in a brilliant white light.

—It’s the giant searchlights on top of the guard towers, and Payton’s own comrades are now working against her…

Once again, Private O’Neil begins running as fast as she can. As the soldier runs, she begins praying to a God that she no longer believed in. “Please don’t let them catch me! …Just let me make it to the woods, and I swear on my life that I’ll never curse again…”

By now, even the German Sheppard guard dogs, (whom O’Neil had personally groomed and fed on numerous occasions), began circling in their cages and barking wildly at her. (The woman wouldn’t have time to notice the control collars that now encircled the dogs’ necks and restructured their obedient minds).

…Please Lord, don’t let them start shooting!

A short moment later someone shouts, “Fugitive!” …A series of shots suddenly ring out, piercing the snow-covered ground all around the woman.

“OH SHIT!” the soldier yelled out, before tripping over a large rock and falling. Another barrage of bullets kicks up the snow around her once again. An unwavering O’Neil quickly gets up and bolts in the direction of the woods. …OK Lord, I won’t make any more promises I can’t keep …Now just get me the hell out of here!

As the strong-willed soldier continues running and praying, she can see the tree line ahead. O’Neil starts to consider what she’s going to do if she actually does make it out of this alive…

…First thing I gotta do is get to a damned pay phone, or better yet; make it to the highway and flag somebody down with a cell phone and a full tank of gas! Then I gotta contact someone over at Brewers Air Force Base …But how in the hell am I going to explain a bunch of green-skinned aliens, who are brainwashing our troops and carting off our female soldiers for purposes unknown?

…Then an even more horrible thought came to the woman’s mind …What if the aliens struck the Air Force Base, and those troops are just as contaminated?

Private Payton O’Neil is suddenly facing some momentous decisions in her life. That’s if she manages to keep herself alive long enough, to be around to make those decisions...