"Oh, fuck me," Niven groaned, getting to his feet. "You're supposed to be Rathros."
Niven had killed me twice, so I was a little nervous that he would pull it off a third time. But I also strongly disliked him for his tendency to puncture my vital body parts and I had no intention of letting him get away. So I didn't charge right at him but I made sure that I was blocking his only exit and that Sylnie and Jaelin were watching my back.
"You're supposed to be Rathros," I said. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Rathros," he returned with contempt. "Obviously."
"So you and Rathros are what, friends?" I asked.
"Drinking buddies," Niven sneered.
"But you know each other?" I pressed.
"Sure. We met a few weeks ago at the six thousandth annual Hell Mix and Mingle. We started talking, we hit it off, one thing led to another, and before you know it…."
"I'm getting a little sick of your non-answers," I snapped.
"I don't give a fuck," he spat. "You commit genocide against my people and then expect me to cooperate with you when you want something? I didn't realize you were actually that arrogant. Or that stupid. Take your pick."
"I'm sorry you take my victory in a defensive war against your invasion so personally," I shouted. "But you killed me. Twice. I don't think anybody doesn't take that shit personally."
"Did I kill you?" He retorted. "Because it seems like you're still not dead."
"Jealous?" I shot back.
He shook his head. "Go fuck yourself. Seriously. But use something big and sharp with lots of spikes on it."
"I don't think you're taking this conversation seriously enough," I growled. I flexed my cerebral muscles and flung him across the room. Both cots hurtled after him, pinning his body against the far wall. He struggled against his restraints but my mind kept him pressed ruthlessly against the gray stone.
"Jaelin," I murmured. "I need you to find me one of those Firstborn weapons we made and bring it to me."