Prologue
His left side was almost numb from too much pain. He was pretty sure his left leg was shattered. At the very least, it shouldn't be twisted at an angle like that.
Focus.
He needed to feed. If he was going to survive his injuries, he needed to feed.
No, he needed to get out of his ship first. He had crashed on land; hopefully the environment was breathable. The hull had crushed in on the left, pinning his arm to his side where a support had buckled in and pierced his limb. He didn't think he could get that off himself.
He used his right hand (thankfully uninjured, he would need it) to check his control panel. Nothing was responsive. The whole ship was shot. The cockpit shield would need to be retracted manually. He could do that. He sunk he fingers into the release to the right, near the seat, and twisted clockwise.
The sealed film shifted back, letting in cold, fresh air. It was dark out, he noted. Maybe he could use the stars to figure out where he had landed, send a signal home.
He was so hungry. Feed. Survive. Get home.
There was noise in the distance. Voices. Only a few of them, and headed his way. He hoped they were human. That would solve one problem, at least.
It was just a moment more before strong, curious hands pulled the support from his arm and side. He wasted no time, lashed out, and the man was dead in seconds.
He felt better already.
The second one tried to run, but he stumbled over his own feet in fear. He lept out of the cockpit, sprang on him, ready, but then a fire exploded on his back.
OK, ow. He turned, saw four armored figures carrying staffs running toward him. The staff tips exploded, and two shots of fire hit him in the chest. Oh, that hurt quite a lot.
He hit the ground, eyes to the sky. His only thought before he blacked out was, Those aren't my stars.