Fire filled the skies. The lesser life-forms scuttled wildly in the opposite direction, making strident screeching noises. Inside my casing, I gritted my teeth. I was firmly convinced that there was nothing more repulsive than the high-pitched squawks that came out of their disgusting fleshy bodies. I spun my dome, pointing my eyestalk at everything but the groveling lumps of fat and juice below me. Their shrieks grew too loud to ignore, as did the stink of their fear and of their flesh frying under my beam. Nausea rose in me, and I screamed the battle cry of my people, louder and louder, trying desperately to drown out their screams. "EXTERMINATE!"

With a gasp and a whir of my luminosity dischargers, I came out of stasis. My dome spun, taking in my surroundings; I instantly began strategizing, calculating exits, firepower, and enemies. It took a few seconds before I realized there were no enemies and no threat: I was in my isolation cubicle on the ship. The dull roar of the engines muffled the small sniffle I was unable to stop. Frantically, I shoved down the rising tide of un-Dalek emotion. Hatred bloomed in my stomach. Hatred, the sick salvation of my race, the cleansing fire that wiped all else away in a rush of blackness. But this hate was directed at an unusual target: myself. My own emotional, disgusting, un-Dalek self. I was almost fully grown, yet here I was displaying emotion like a recent convert, or a yearling who knew no better. My own big fat limbic system was what had gotten into this cubicle in the first place.

A spark of self-pity lit itself in my brain, so small I did not recognize it. But the cubicle system did. The wires plugged into my dome and plating sent a flare of electricity directly into my nerves. It was all I could do not to whine in pain. Instead I focused on the hate. Baseless, directionless hatred, towards everything in the universe. Towards my mindless fellow Daleks who had locked me up in this horrible place. Towards the fleshy lesser life-forms who dared to exist. And most of all, towards myself, and what I have become.

I am a Dalek. I have no name, no identity, nor do I need one. Dalek is enough to make lower life-forms flee in their primitive terror. I am seventh-generation Dalek of Skaro. That is something to be proud of. So why does it hurt?

Suddenly the doors slide open, and a huge cherry-red Dalek wheels herself into the room. The larger size of her manipulator arm and luminosity dischargers, the smaller size of her gunstick, and her distinctive color make it quite clear who she is. I lower my gunstick and manipulator arm and direct my eyestalk towards the floor in respect. It is a difficult and dangerous job to be a Dalek Matron. Raising young Daleks is dirty work, and requires more cruelty than any other job a Dalek can have. The cold hatred she exudes from every inch of her Dalekanium plating is dazzling. Lesser life-forms might say her proportions were off-putting, but I knew that the true measure of Dalek beauty was brutality. A quality I did not possess.

"Your file has been reviewed," echoed the Matron. "Between the time all emotions should have been purged from you, and now, you have exhibited the following un-Dalek behaviors: Emotion, the desire for connection, pity towards un-Dalek life forms, pity towards un-Dalek Daleks, retreat in battle, independence, refusal to obey orders, misuse of gunstick, and misuse of Pathweb. It has been concluded by the Dalek Senate that your cortex vault is damaged. As all means of repair to the cortex vault was lost with the Cult of Skaro, you must be exterminated before your un-Dalek traits can corrupt the remainder of the hive. You are ordered to report to the Senate of the Daleks in one hour." She moved her eyestalk to rest directly on me, waiting for an answer.

"I obey," I responded, trying to sound emotionless, a Dalek doing my duty. A real Dalek. Not this diluted, lukewarm filth with a damaged cortex vault, of all things - the one part that couldn't be repaired by my antibodies. The cortex vault was the essence of what made us Dalek. It removed the filth and clutter of thought and emotion from our brains, filling it instead with clean black hatred. Without a properly functioning cortex vault, one could not be called a Dalek. My voice sounded weak, even to me.

The Matron turned and wheeled away. The doors whirred closed behind her, leaving me alone. All by myself in this horrible place, alone with my own un-Dalek thoughts. Something wet dripped down from my eye. The cubicle system detected my show of emotion and buzzed, but I gave the pain no notice. A different kind of pain burrowed within me, pulsating. I let my gunstick fall from the ready position, and more water slid down my face. I had known since I was a yearling that I would never be beautiful. Perhaps in the lower life-form estimation of beauty, but not in the way of my people. Dalek beauty was barbed and scintillating. It was hatred in a shell of polycarbide, without an iota of these contaminations I felt. I would never be selected for breeding. I wanted to be. I wanted to be the perfect Dalek soldier. But it was that longing that had gotten me into this mess.

The sentence - extermination - didn't bother me so much. My cortex vault wasn't that damaged. In a way, it was comforting to hear the word that defined my people. Even if it was only looking in from the outside, just the Dalek-ness made it all almost worthwhile. I couldn't help a tiny, despairing sigh.

The hour passed quickly. It did not seem long before the doors opened, and I wheeled out into my own judgment day.