The Martians

...

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Blood hits the ground in slow, rhythmic trickles, echoing like a macabre metronome in the eerie silence of Mars's desolation.

A girl, aged thirteen, maybe fourteen, stands amidst the ruins, her presence exudes an ominous aura far beyond her years. Her expression one of furious concentration.

In her right hand, she manipulates a circular gemstone in her right hand with a frantic, almost ritualistic fervor, her fingers tracing patterns as if weaving dark spells. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, seems to pierce through the fabric of reality itself.

In her left hand, blood continues to seep from a heart, its rhythm now only a memory. The heart, once the core of vitality, now a mere object in her grasp. At her feet, the body of a man sprawls lifeless, his chest an empty cavity, is vacant eyes staring into the void.

She curses under her breath, her fingers working with an almost desperate intensity on the gemstone. Finally, there's a clicking sound, like the unlocking of a forbidden door. Her face lights up with a savage joy, and she screams, "Finally!"

The atmosphere shifts, a chill sweeping over the desolate landscape, the silence broken by the rustling of movement. One by one, the creatures that had been lifeless just moments before begin to rise, their movements jerky at first, then gaining purpose, as if animated by an unnatural force.

The girl watches, her smile wide and disturbingly innocent, as the K'tharr rise. "My babies," she coos, her voice a chilling lullaby in the dead air, "welcome back."

She points with a slender finger at one of the K'tharr, her voice dripping with a sinister sweetness, "You, be a darling and go kill that group running away for me, will you?"

The K'tharr hisses, a sound like steam escaping from a boiling pit, its body shivering with an eagerness for violence. It leaps forward, its form becoming a dark streak against the desolate landscape, moving with an eerie, almost preternatural grace.

The girl watches its departure, her smile broadening into a giggle, her eyes alight with dark amusement as she anticipates the chaos to come.

Her giggling ceases abruptly, her body stiffening as if caught by an invisible hand.

A voice, smooth yet chilling, echoes inside her head, "Anastasia," it drawls, each syllable a whisper of condemnation, "are you slacking off again?"

Anastasia stumbles over her words, her confidence faltering, "N...no... no, no, no, my lady, I've been working very hard."

The voice sighs, the sound reverberating through her mind like the wind through ancient catacombs, "Is it done?"

Anastasia's smile returns, her heart pounding with the need to please, "Yes, my lady, Mars is ready for you," she says.

"Anybody alive?" the voice inquires, its tone a blend of curiosity and command.

Anastasia hesitates, then replies, her voice careful, "Yes, a few, but it's no matter. My pets will take care of it."

"No," the voice counters sharply, "let them be."

"My lady?" Anastasia asks, confusion etched in her voice.

The voice is silent, but Anastasia, seeking clarification, continues, "But my lord said..."

The response is immediate, the voice erupts in her mind, a storm of thunderous anger, "Are you questioning me?"

Anastasia collapses, her scream piercing the air, her body convulsing as if in physical agony. Tears stream down her face as she weeps, her words tumbling out in a frantic, broken rhythm, "No, my lady, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," a desperate plea for forgiveness.

The voice sighs, an attempt at consolation seeping through the harshness, "There, there," it soothes, "You're a good child, but sometimes you frustrate me. I didn't mean to scream at you."

Anastasia sniffles, her sobs subsiding, her body calming under the gentle reprimand.

The voice continues, its tone now more measured, "Let the escapees be, especially if they're heading to Earth. We need to see if we can glean something from them; the high families want to try again."

"Again?" the word escapes Anastasia, her hand quickly covering her mouth, her eyes closing in anticipation of another scolding.

But there's no anger this time, just a matter-of-fact response, "Yes, again. We really want that planet."

Anastasia nods, understanding dawning on her, "What do you need from me, my lady?"

"For now, prepare Mars for my arrival. Then be on standby; I might need you to return to Earth."

Anastasia shudders, memories of her last visit to Earth, a thousand years ago, flashing unbidden through her mind, bringing with them a chill of dread.

She stifles her complaints, knowing the futility of voicing them, and instead nods, her voice resolute, "Yes, my lady."

Then, like the receding tide, she feels the voice leave her mind.

Anastasia reaches out, her mind extending like dark tendrils to the K'tharr she had dispatched. She sends a mental command, a silent whisper in the vast emptiness, for it to return.

Turning to the remaining K'tharr, she speaks, her voice tinged with disappointment, "Unfortunately, my babies, we do not get to kill the rest of the escapees," she sighs, "I know, I know, no fun, but those are our orders."

Her voice then darkens, a sinister cheer replacing the gloom, "Instead, we get to do something less boring. Fix this damn planet to look more, well, planety. Do it with the same enthusiasm as when you're killing. Now, chop chop."

At her command, the K'tharr disperse, their forms moving like shadows across the landscape, their actions a perverse ballet of creation in a world of destruction, transforming Mars under her watchful, malevolent gaze.

She turns back to the man whose heart she had held, now just a lifeless form at her feet.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice a soft, mournful echo in the still air, "I couldn't fulfill my promise."

Her gaze shifts, as if she could see through the void to where his family was headed. "Your family is going to Earth, it seems."

She sighs, a sound heavy with foreboding, "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, you know?"

With a slow, sad shake of her head, she murmurs, "Poor bastards."