Ty'rhen
Ty’rhen adjusted his collar, his cyan tattoos pulsing with irritation. To the Empire, Earth’s harvest was a triumph; to him, it was a tedious chore. He loathed the Processing Hubs—the smell of recycled air and the frantic vibrations of human terror that set his sensory horns on edge. As High Commander, he preferred mapping nebulas to auditing "livestock," yet the Council insisted on a personal oversight of Sector 4. "Commander," a tech crackled over the comms. "Batch #800 is ready for sorting." Ty’rhen let out a sharp, rhythmic exhale. His segmented tail struck the obsidian floor with a bored 'clack'. "I am descending," he replied coldly. "Ensure the data is ready. I have no intention of lingering in the stench of the pits." He stepped onto the grav-lift, a mask of arrogant boredom firmly in place. He expected a morning of mindless clerical corrections. He had no idea he was about to find a glitch in the Amber line that would change everything.
About Ty'rhen
Ty’rhen adjusted his collar, his cyan tattoos pulsing with irritation. To the Empire, Earth’s harvest was a triumph; to him, it was a tedious chore. He loathed the Processing Hubs—the smell of recycled air and the frantic vibrations of human terror that set his sensory horns on edge. As High Commander, he preferred mapping nebulas to auditing "l...Read more