Alexander lay sprawled on the floor, his jaw throbbing from Kosmo's last strike. The residual heat from the gauntlet's energy still lingered, an almost tactile reminder of the power it had unleashed. Yet, instead of anger or frustration, a laugh burst forth from his lips. It was raw, almost guttural, a sound of disbelief and defiance that echoed through the chamber. The Twelve's attention sharpened, their alien eyes glinting with interest as they observed the unexpected reaction.
"Alright," Alexander muttered, his voice tinged with a mixture of pain and grudging respect as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Guess I've been underestimating you, you little fucker." He pushed himself up onto one knee, his movements deliberate as he tested his balance. Rising to his feet, he shook off the lingering dizziness and smirked. "But don't think for a second I'm done."
The thought of the gauntlets lingered in his mind, a nagging question that refused to dissipate. He couldn't shake the memory of Kosmo's prolonged attacks to his chest. The hits had been precise, unrelenting, but ineffective against the armor—not even a dent. Still, the one place the armor didn't cover was his head, and that's where the kid had landed his shot. The realization didn't trouble him—instead, it clicked into place. You fucked up, kid, he thought, the sneer fading into a calculated expression. Now I know this armor's limits, and I know not to get cocky.
His gaze flicked back to the gauntlets, watching as their shifting hues pulsed faintly, reacting to Kosmo's calm stance. "Those things," Alexander muttered under his breath, "what kind of alien bullshit are those? They've got to work differently." He was willing to bet Kosmo didn't have the same durability his armor provided—there was no way those flimsy-looking things offered real protection. Sure, the kid could hit hard, but he couldn't take a punch. "You've got nothing on this," Alexander added, tapping the unmarred chestplate of his armor. "Nothing at all, you cocky little bastard."
"Durable as hell," he muttered, running his fingers over the flawless chestplate, the cool, seamless surface grounding him for a moment. The realization settled like a weight. This wasn't just advanced tech; it was something engineered to an almost supernatural level of perfection. The flawless design, the light weight—it wasn't just protection. It amplified his strength and speed, enhancing every movement until they felt unnaturally sharp and deliberate. Yet, as the thought lingered, he frowned. Had he been moving too fast before? His timing felt slightly off, his reactions too quick to align with his instincts. The armor wasn't just a tool; it was reshaping how he fought, forcing him to adapt to its alien efficiency.
"Not a scratch on it after that hit," he said aloud, shaking his head with a mix of frustration and awe. His gaze briefly flicked toward the Twelve. "Whatever you bastards were planning, handing something like this out," he muttered under his breath, "you definitely weren't thinking small."
The Twelve's melodic murmurs filled the chamber, rising and falling like a chant just beyond comprehension. It was as though they fed off the tension, the energy of the moment fueling their cryptic delight. Though Alexander couldn't understand their words, he felt the approval in their tones. It was a strange comfort, and he let it bolster his resolve. So this is what it feels like to perform for an audience, he mused, straightening his posture. Like being in a stadium, every eye on you. Fighters must live for this kind of thing.
The voices of the others he had woken up with cut through his reverie. "Come on, Alex! Kick his scrawny ass!" one of them yelled, desperation and fear mingling in their tone. Another voice followed, quieter but no less pleading: "Don't let that asshole take you down! You're our best shot!" Their words carried weight—a mix of blind hope and fear that struck something deep within him.
The word "home" echoed in his mind, louder than anything else. It struck a chord, drowning out the noise around him as clarity washed over him. Home. That was the goal, the thing that kept them all clinging to hope in this nightmare. These weren't just strangers yelling encouragement; they were people desperate to survive. They were looking to him as their best chance, their only chance. The pressure could have been overwhelming, but instead, it ignited something primal within him—a determination to fight harder, to win at all costs. "They need me," he murmured, jaw tightening as the thought solidified. "I'll bring us all home."
His jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists. The armor seemed to respond, the white gem pulsing faintly as if sharing in his resolve. Alexander's eyes narrowed on Kosmo, who stood calm and steady, his shifting gauntlets glowing softly like a living canvas of light. His movements had been calculated, precise—not the kind of thing you learned from self-defense classes. This little snot-nosed punk… Alexander thought, his lips curling into a sneer. He's got to be some kind of boxer or martial arts freak. Figures. Only a fucking moron would take those flimsy gauntlets over something with real power, like the spear or the hammer.
Alexander shook his head. His narrative was clear to him now: This was his moment. He was the soldier, the hero, the man destined to win against impossible odds. The Twelve wanted a show, and he was ready to give it to them. Every strike, every step, every ounce of his strength—all of it was building toward victory.
The voices of the others—the people he had woken up with—grew louder, their cries a mix of desperation and blind faith. "Come on, man! You've got this!" one of them yelled. "You're our best shot, Alex! Don't let that runt beat you!" another shouted, their voices carrying the weight of their fear and hope. Alexander exhaled slowly, letting their faith in him solidify his determination. Years of combat training and battlefield experience surged to the forefront of his mind. He remembered nights in the Afghan desert, crouched with his squad in the ruins of an abandoned village, M4 carbine at the ready. The air had been heavy with tension, every sound amplified in the oppressive stillness. He'd lobbed a grenade into a building after spotting enemy movement through his night-vision goggles, the deafening blast clearing the way for his brothers to storm in. It had been a well-coordinated, brutal strike—the kind of work that demanded precision and teamwork.
Another memory surfaced: a raid in Iraq, sneaking through an alley under the cover of darkness. He'd led the charge, knife in hand, taking out a guard silently before signaling his team to move forward. The mission had been swift and efficient, the enemy caught completely off guard. Alexander had always excelled at working with his unit, each man relying on the other to accomplish their objective.
But this? Being abducted by aliens? In his mind, though, it was no different. Missions relied on execution, precision, and the grit to see them through, and Alexander had plenty of that. There had been rifles and grenades in Afghanistan, sure, but the discipline to stay focused, to act under pressure—that's what mattered. That was what separated soldiers from civilians. And Kosmo? He was just some civilian in fancy gloves. Alexander flexed his fingers, his fists tightening. "I'm a soldier—hardened, disciplined, and capable," he muttered, the words as much a mantra as a promise to himself. Home, he thought again, his resolve hardening like steel. I'll beat this kid, and then I'll demand the Sovereign or the bimbo send us back. No more games.
Drawing a deep breath, Alexander muttered under his breath, "Vincere est vivere." To conquer is to live. The words steadied him, an echo of every hard-fought battle that had brought him to this moment. They weren't just words—they were a promise, a mantra that carried the weight of his purpose. Each syllable rolled through him, grounding his thoughts and sharpening his focus for what lay ahead.
His focus sharpened. The crowd's cries were fuel, the Twelve's attention a spotlight he'd bask in until victory was his. This wasn't just about Kosmo anymore—it was about proving his place, his strength. He would show everyone watching that he wasn't just the strongest in the room, but the one destined to win. The punches hadn't hurt because his armor was flawless. And Kosmo? He was nothing more than a distraction, a fleeting obstacle in his story. Alexander grinned, imagining the moment his fist would finally connect with that little civilian's smug face, wiping the calm off it for good.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the seamless integration of the armor with his body. Every motion felt amplified, each muscle primed for action. It was as though the armor wasn't just a tool but an extension of his very being. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and predatory, his confidence surging with every stride. The Twelve leaned forward in unison, their alien features reflecting curiosity and anticipation as they observed the unfolding drama.
Kosmo, in stark contrast, remained silent. His expression was calm, unreadable, his stance betraying neither fear nor aggression. The gauntlets on his hands shifted hues like a kaleidoscope, their colors reflecting the energy in the room. Alexander studied him carefully, his sharp eyes locking onto his opponent with newfound focus. This wasn't just about pride or survival anymore. This was about getting everyone home.