Nyssa was having a bad hair day.
She was not, as Tegan used to say, the sort of person who fussed about such trivial things, but lately Terminus had spiraled so far out of control the little things were the only things that Nyssa still maintained some measure of control over. They were the only things that helped her through the days.
Terminus had once been an empty, desolate and superbly massive wreck floating in the center of the universal expanse. When she'd first arrived, its walkways and irradiation centers were only occasionally filled with lepers and hopped-up guards.
But that was then...
Due much in part to Nyssa's research, the place was now thriving. Too much, in fact.
Not only had her initial progress on Lazar's disease instigated huge advancements, but her follow-on work with other diseases had put Terminus on the map and in demand. The docks had to be retro-fitted in order to accommodate the increased traffic and the many vacant wards, rest areas and food pavilions had been hastily refurnished. The increased population put new demands on the station's infrastructure and in a matter of years the station had hastily ballooned into a large city, filled with residents, workers and support staff.
And, at some point that Nyssa had lost track of on one of her expeditions, the Sisters of Perpetual Affection had installed a brothel.
Which, really, Nyssa didn't have an opinion on, per se, but it was becoming more and more difficult for her staff to maintain regular hours, as their visits to the Sister's decks became more frequent and prolonged.
She sighed as she stepped into her main laboratory and noted that two more employees had failed to arrive on schedule. She decided she'd have to hold their wages as an adcentive.
She sat at her console and peered over schedules and data tables of hours, personnel staffing and research objectives and wondered at what point she'd managed to stop actively doing research and become little more than a program manager.
And, to top it off, the Garm was menstruating again.
Nyssa agitatedly pulled at her curled locks, pondering how to deal with the massive, moody hound. She was just beginning to wind her hair up behind her head when she the first clang echoed through the station. Data tablets and instruments fluttered across the table as the tremor subsided. She grabbed at her personal data pods and began downloading the emergency backups into them as a precaution in case the hull of the station had ruptured, her hair forgotten.
A high-pitched whine stabbed into her brain and sent Nyssa reeling into the table. For a moment she thought there had been an explosion or perhaps some sort of sonic weapon until she recognized it as the emergency fire siren. The whine did not cease nor increase in volume, which not only made it very difficult to sleep through, or, as now, maintain any sort of coherent thought, it also meant that she could hear little else.
Which was why, perhaps, she found herself staring dumbly at the figure before her, staring in wonder at the wall that had apparently been shredded silently, lying in shriveled slices on the floor at its feet.
A guard appeared in the wreckage, firing uselessly at the figure, the rounds bouncing uselessly off its back. The figure raised a casual hand and spat a stream of fluid metal from its wrist that enveloped the guard, leaving him twisting and writing on the ground as the silver snakes devoured him.
Nyssa watched in fascination as the figure placed a hand on what was left of the wall and absorbed it, sucking the splintered metal seamlessly into itself in a moment. It then raised its head then and stared back at her.
The world slipped for a moment.
Its scalp was shaved, dusted with ashen stubble between jagged scars of white and puckered pink, the shoulders were angular and jagged as if the massive limbs had been stapled on. The chest and waist were in cased in a twisting mass of the fluid metal that looped round and round the figure, scurrying up its neck and down the legs. But it was the eyes that dropped Nyssa.
She knew him.
Nyssa found herself sitting on her bum, staring back at the figure, staring at the impossible. Behind him the fallen guard rose to his feet to stand motionless and obedient beside the figure, the silver snakes shifting luridly under his skin and uniform.
"Nyssa." The figure boomed. Even his voice had changed, replaced by something deep, reverberating and hideous.
But, nonetheless, the figure before her was unmistakably Adric.