Alekhya s Mom 8211 A Surprise
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Alek Of Aidran free porn video
An eerie light was emitted in the night, not a terribly bright light but almost as though each and every object possessed its own form of fluorescence. In this almost-night a boy wandered, too tall to be a mere child but too innocent to be called a man, through the streets of an unnamed city. His clothes were tattered where they weren’t ripped or absent, but contrasted by the pale cleanliness of his ivory skin though these parts didn’t seem to concern him in the least. His bright, wonder-filled eyes reflected the world around him, a Dumpster to his right, piles of garbage stacked three or four feet high opposite that, all down a narrow alley leading out to a still-filthier street, but if he saw this, it didn’t diminish the magical appreciation of his gaze. Still walking, the boy caught site of a woman lying in the midst of this garbage pile, bleeding and battered and murmuring to herself. He ignored her.
Over the years this boy would grow, becoming more a man in stature and size but maintaining his overwhelming sense of wonder and curiosity. His face would become hard, his eyes cold, and the cruel nature of the world around him would seep into his bones, but still he would remain a curious, milk-skinned figure. His curiosity would attract many followers, and his childlike qualities would make him many friends in the would-be heartless society he existed, for everyone trusted him, where they could not trust the murderers and thieves they called neighbors. Naturally, this too made him many enemies, and that is where this story is to take place.
* * *
‘Alek. Alek, wake up.’
Our protagonist rose, to the call of his own name.
‘It’s time to be going. They are coming.’ This was his sarir, the woman he spent his life with, his house, his bed. Or, as close to a house and bed as any human being at this time possessed, which isn’t saying very much. Alek – the pale-boy-turned-man from earlier, for the not-so-sharp of readers – had learned from an early age to not trust anyone, no matter how close, but he faltered on this point with Eefit and wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Breathing lightly, freely, Alek took hold of a pistol beside his bed, put on his shirt, did his oral ministrations at the sink, looked around for any thing of significant value, and left the place he had spent the night. Outside, an honor guard took up post around him, eyes scanning the concrete foliage around for any sign of danger. The years had been good to Alek, promoting him to the head of a small group of mercenaries who called themselves Aidran, and now they were on the move again, tents and things being gathered up and preparing for travel. Two small tanks were being stocked with grenades and M-16s were slung over the shoulder of any man not carrying heavier weaponry.
Enemies were supposed to be coming soon, from the North, and the camp was fleeing in an orderly manner so that they could regroup with a squadron of twice the size of their current infantry and then engage the enemy with superior manpower.
Two guerillas approached Alek with a third body held between them by either arm. Seeing the insignia on the man’s chest, Alek gave the signal – a slight flick of his wrist with his ring and middle fingers down – and he was killed on the spot. A general of his rival army. That must have been how the intelligence was gathered by Eefit’s spies. They would have gotten any useful information from him, so no need to keep him alive. Alex was quite definitely king of all around him, and ruled his throne with an iron fist despite his gentle face and innocent demeanor. He was a sweet person to anyone who knew him, but his candy-filled center was protected by the coldest iron known to man.
As the general’s head exploded, a shriek escaped from chest as his heart exploded. ‘Tagged,’ said one of the guardsmen. ‘They know where we are.’ A radio turned itself on somewhere inside the General, obviously programmed to do so in case of his death, and the voice of Alek’s enemy – the only enemy he felt he had, the rest were merely pawns placed before him by said enemy – filled the air, in his strangely sing-song manner:
Some say I’m psycho, some say I’m sick
I’ve got a disease and they don’t know what to call it
Some say I’m insane, some say possessed
Either way I’m going to the loony bin nonetheless
Chills ran down Alek’s spine, and his sarir fainted, but the guardsmen held the cadaver before him until he gestured for them to take it away. Obviously not a general then, a messenger in disguise. Is the information reliable? I’d have to ask my love, but that would seem doubting, and I have the utmost faith in her abilities. No, I shall believe the information true until she tells me otherwise. Stepping through the puddle of blood and brain pooled at his feet, Alek ignored the sploshing sound and continued on his way to gear up and complete his goals.
* * *
The group of mercenaries Alek had sent out to extradite a group of dissenters from his own rank had failed. Alek knew this, but not to what degree. He had sent fifty thousand of his best troops, out of a full seventy-five thousand. Of the extradition party, only twenty thousand were left, but the Man-in-Charge was incompetent, having been put at his rank by a dying comrade who had been given charge of the quest. The comrade died of a bullet to his left temporal lobe, and the narrator must comment that he doubts he could distinguish one person from anyone else, much less remember who he was giving charge to. The incompetence of the new General can be measured by just one action: He didn’t tell Alek about the losses.
Cyril was a private. He hadn’t long-since joined Aidran, but his father had been an Aidran soldier, his father’s father, and so on down the line, Cyril’s brothers had also joined up, but quickly left the group after having been offered much more money working for Bal Han, the rival group previously mentioned, but despite this, Cyril believed himself to be loyal to the group and the Aidranian cause. He disagreed with the new commander, who had just given the order to him to pack up and move further north, away from their allies, in order to better position themselves for the coming attack. Cyril was of the opinion that they should move south to meet their allies, then use the gap between two mansions positioned nearby to bottleneck their enemies, and rain SMG and small-arms fire down at them until they could infiltrate the buildings. But it was not his to plan, and so he gave the message to the troops and saw to the packing of their make-shift camp.
* * *
No one was there. Alek, accompanied by his sarir and a small platoon of twenty men, had reached the rendezvous but the army he had been anticipating had not shown up. Alek had heard reports of a Hammer squad coming up from beyond the Smithian mansions to the north, and was desperate to inform his new commander, so that they could repel both attacks – anvil, coming from the behind, and hammer, coming from above, to crush their enemies between, an effective plan by a shrewd leader – but the army or a representative never showed. Damn. Alek and his squad decide to head back to the troops they do have, since it was highly impractical to bring the entire army with them.
* * *
The sounds of gunfire had died long since, but the fires and bullets and bodies paid tribute to what had happened to his comrades. Alek didn’t know what he could do – Bal Han had eliminated both of his armies, to his knowledge – with no soldiers left. He felt he had two options – engage now, and die honorably, or retreat into the shadows with Eefit and hope that his expectations of how Bal Han would run the new nation he planned to build were too generous in their cruelties. Alek was no coward. ‘Find them and kill.’
* * *
Cyril had visited the nearby lake to wash his uniform, but he heard iron groaning, and knowing better than to attribute such a noise to random acts
of nature, he retreated behind a condemned building, stark naked, and watched. His new commander – he wasn’t familiar with the name of him, but he didn’t care either – was accompanied by another man, and they appeared to be arguing. The new man was the incarnation of obsidian glory – dark skin, a shadowy cloak, and no light seemed to reflect off him – but as to their conversation, Cyril could not hear, so he approached with more care than the two must have taken when coming to the lake.
‘I’ve done exactly as you said!’ Commander-in-Charge.
‘It is no longer required that you send this army off the edge of the world. Aidran is dead – this is all that’s left. I want you to go back, give Alek some confidence, some men, and his death sentence.’ Cloak.
‘Then what was the point in coming this far, only to return to where I came from?’ A shriek. CIC.
‘Points… you want points? Points I have, points I can give you,’ and with this he unsheathed a hitherto unnoticed sword from his side and pressed the tip forcefully into the shoulder of his would-be ally. ‘Here’s a point for you. Any other points are mine to know, do we understand?’ The pressure released on his sword, and the skin that was being displaced returned, but the silhouette turned the blade up towards the Commander’s throat.
‘We understand,’ stuttering.
Cyril did not want to die, so he fled, without concern for sound or any thing else. The cloak had been looking into his eyes when he asked, and Cyril took this for his dismissal by the unknown figure. He did not stop running (south, as the case may be) until he came upon the ruins of what appeared to be a camp of mercenaries – dead mercenaries. Stopping to view the uniforms of the fallen soldiers, Cyril understood what he was looking at and screamed.
* * *
A guttural yell pierced through the coming dawn, and Alek tracked it down. The sound emanated from a man of no more than twenty, hate and loss mixed in his eyes. His hands were bloody and his face haggard, but Alek felt only a burning desire for vengeance and noticed not the uniform of the man he attacked but merely the emotion – anger.
Alek did not favor the sub-machine guns his troops did, nor even the grenades and smoke bombs. No, instead he carried a six-shot revolver, an old, old Gary Reeder 500 BMF .50 Maximum. Most people would tell you that the gun was a piece of plumbing tube with a trigger, shooting kitchen sinks, but Alek could handle the recoil. One shot from the gun would knock over an elephant with a well-placed shot, and no armor made could stop it. It lived up to it’s namesake – best made firearm. He cooked off a shot, and felt the ground jerk upwards to hit him in the back.
* * *
No sooner had he yelled than a figure appeared before Cyril, and he was ready for it. But then he recognized the man he was squaring off against and almost passed out. It was Alek himself. Before he could stop the man, however, his opponent shot at him. Cyril had been conditioned against small arms fire, but this gun was a rocket launcher if he ever saw one. The Boom! at thirty feet nearly burst his eardrums, and he only barely made it away from the shot. The second time, he wasn’t so lucky, and his chest exploded like a rotten egg in the microwave too long.
* * *
Alek examined the body of the man he had just killed – an agile man, no doubt, to dodge his shot – and realized it was one of his own. He had shot too soon, without thinking. He reached into the man’s pockets, and found a hunting knife and an identification. Morocco Cyril, seventeen years old, a soldier of five year’s experience. Alek had known Cyril’s father, Antony Cyril, for over twenty-five years. The man had given his life for Alek.
* * *
‘What is wrong, my heart?’ asked Eefit.
‘I just killed a man,’ replied Alek.
‘Why, that’s wonderful news! What was his rank?’
‘A private in the Royal Armies of Aidran, son of Antony Cyril, martyr to the life of Megamus Aleksys.’
‘Oh my god….’
‘Strangely, I don’t think he would help me now.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I do? This has gone on too long. It’s time to end this fighting.
* * *
Alek knew where to find Bal Han, and he entered the encampments alone. A group of several soldiers tried to stop him, but he carved his path through them without a second thought. ‘I challenge you to end this, Bal! Enough men have died for our strife!’ In this proclamation, one could almost see the face of the boy with whom we have already been acquainted.
Bal Han’s reply: ‘I kill your army, and you offer me a duel? What kind of fool do you think I am? I could have you killed right now if I saw what good it would do. You are defeated, so live, defeated and forsaken!’
‘Knives it is then,’ and Alek rushes towards his enemy. The tide of soldiers around him close, but Alek stabs his way through, kicking, biting, before being overwhelmed. The weight of a thousand-plus men bears down upon him but he continues fighting from the ground, keeping knees off his windpipe and feet from his face, but defense quickly becomes his only method of survival.
‘Leave him be,’ comes the order from the throne. ‘I shall grant you your duel, Alek, this is too pathetic to bear.’ Drawing an axe, Bal Han approaches his enemy.
A few unsteady blows later, Alek falls, able only to defend himself from his enemy’s axe with his sword, and making every effort to get up while keeping his sword in play. Laughter ensues from the crowd around him, and even the ever-serious Bal Han realizes the irony of the situation. In his mercy, Bal strikes down with all his might and crushes the sword in Alek’s grip, taking no less than two fingers with him. Alek kicks upwards, a hard blow to Bal’s sternum, and Bal falls back. Scrambling up, Alek runs off, followed only by the laughter of his victorious opponent.
* * *
Mending his wounds, Eefit makes small noises of sympathy, but Alek pays no attention. Not only was he dead, he was dishonored. His army was obliterated, his enemy had won, and even the duel was an utter loss. But worse of all, he had killed his best friend’s son. Eefit was all that he had left, and they both knew it.
‘I love you, you are my every thing. If the world blows up, I couldn’t care less, as long as I have you.’ Alek truly meant the words he said, and it is the opinion of the narrator that it was the reply that killed him.
‘Too bad, Alek. That’s too bad.’ With these words she reached into her blouse and pulled out a small, leather-bound packet and said ‘Read.’
The person who bares this letter works at the command of the Empire of Avydus. You are to do exactly as instructed without question and with utter discretion at the price of your head.
The Royal Courts of Avydus
Emperor Bal Han
Tears rolling down his eyes, Alek lost all hope. ‘Get out. Get out! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!’ and Eefit left Alek in the ally where he lay, among a large pile of garbage with a dumpster supporting his feet.
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