Wow…Okay, chapter 3. About time, yes? Let's just say my inspiration is because I'm not too pleased with my college and their ideas of "fair" grading. This chapter is significantly more, well...gross, than the other ones. If you like it, I'll continue. If not, then please give me criticism so I can make it longer. Believe it or not, I do listen to such comments.
"Andromeda, what's the status of Tyr?" Dylan asks, setting his empty cup down on the table.
Silence.
"Andromeda?"
"Here, Captain," her holographic visage flickers into being a few feet away. Instead of her customary uniform she appears to have donned a black dress and veil, as though she were at an old Earth funeral.
"That's…a new outfit," he comments, his eyebrows raising in inquiry.
"Mr. Harper saw fit to play 'dress-up' today," she sounds worried, anxious.
"What's wrong?"
"My current programming prohibits me from answering a question with that context."
"Your 'current programming?'" Dylan gives a short bark of laughter before looking at Andromeda directly. "Oh no. Harper." In a flash he's out of his seat and rushing towards the door, belting on his forcelance as he goes. Expecting the door to open, he runs into it. "Andromeda, open this door right now."
"I am eagerly trying to be sorry, Captain," a new voice emanates from the hologram's lips, flat and devoid of emotion. Harper's voice. "But I don't think you warrant the effort it would take to dreg up such a feeling. Out." With that, the hologram deactivates, and the lights begin flickering.
"Ah hell!" Dylan curses, kicking the door. It opens a crack, enough to dig his fingers into and pry apart. Grunting and cursing profusely, he manages to widen the space enough for him to attempt to squeeze through.
"Ship's internal defensive system activated."
The electronic words come like a death warrant as turrets spin in place and launch plasma discharges in Dylan's direction. He hurriedly moves to pull himself back into his quarters, but the door closes, crushing his ribcage and likely cracking several bones. With a grunt of pain, he heaves himself out of the door, but his hand is caught at the wrist, where the carpal bones widen and begin to flare out into the actual hand. His face goes first red with effort, then white as the door snaps shut, severing his hand with a sickeningly wet crack. He cannot help but cry out from the pain that goes on and on.
"Dylan, so strong…so tough," Harper murmurs, listening to the music of agony. Pain incomparably minuscule when set beside his own, but lingering and more immediate. "I wonder what you'll lose next." His giggles are cut off as though with the knife that was supposed to sever his life when a drone walks in clumsily and deposits a bloody chunk of flesh at the creature's side. "Look, we have a souvenir!" He picks up the hand and starts picking the bones out. "This'll make a pretty little glove, won't it, Tyr?" The creature shifts from his seated position on the Nietzschean's belly. "I know it doesn't match the one you gave me, but the contrast is rather striking. Oh my, look at this mess!" He motions at the bloody bones. "Look at how Dylan's soul sticks to his insides. It's all sticky! I wonder what will happen when I take the rest of it from him? Is he so bent on restoring the Commonwealth that even his soul has become too stubborn to leave? What's that, Tyr?" He turns and looks at the corpse's face, foam dripping down from the corner of its mouth. "Yes, stupidity probably plays a factor in that as well." With the bones of the hand fully removed, he pulled the skin over his own little hand. "Would you look at that, Tyr? It's almost as big as yours! Well, you know what they say about big hands. Too bad there's not more to choose from on this ship. I really need to change my wardrobe." The creature plucked at his shirt with both hands, one light, one dark.