balcony of the Rissola hotel. The breeze tried to whisk me to other memories, but I fought it and stuck with this one.
More jeers and taunts egged us on as we laid down a few more cards. The game was taut. But he was about to break. I had him.
“Come on Wenton, give it up,” he spat, ravening for the lust of money.
I merely smiled, and knew I had him beat. His bluff was ridiculous.
“Play that one, Patty!” said his mistress, trying to encourage him.
Just shut up, I remembered thinking.
“Lucy, stop it, just stop it! Let me have some room.”
He was getting nervous. He knew the stakes were high.
He moved his arm and laid down his last card. That was it! I had him! I smiled and followed suit in a triumphant manner.
“ No! ” he roared.
The crowd around us taunted him and cheered me. I gloatingly bore my teeth and tried not to laugh. I shoveled the chips my way as he glared. His woman tried to comfort him, but he remained motionless and annoyed.
At first I thought it was the wind. But when the earsplitting shriek came a second time, the music stopped. Everyone left the table and crowded around the threshold leading to the dance floor. More screaming erupted from inside followed by “somebody call 9-1-1!”
I didn’t move, though. I started pocketing my chips as fast as I could. The club could figure this out. Not me.
Right by my ear, another glass-shattering cry occurred, making me spill a load of chips onto the floor. I turned to see what was wrong and fell off my chair in disgust.
All at once, I jolted back to reality—back to Terra-Masou.
My arm was twitching underneath the table. I looked down at the convulsing flesh and wondered what the hell was happening. I flexed my forearm and gripped my wrist. The shaking stopped. Then I remembered.
My addiction. Adrenoprene. I licked my lips and hungered for the titillating energy. I subconsciously started to plot a way to have my fix.
9
Doctor Kipling’s footsteps echoed down the long corridor. The off-white walls were making his bloodshot eyes swell and strain. The fear underneath his skin shuddered.
No one knows, though. Calm down, Peter!
He gripped his bloody stump of a hand and continued toward his destination. Axxiol was extremely quiet this time of night, which made things a lot worse. His feet were sopping wet from the incident and they made a distinct squishy noise with each footstep. He was mostly in shock; feeling only twinges of pain every other step.
His lab coat was ripped at various places and a huge red smear covered his right sleeve. There were specs of greenish ooze all over his coat, and a sole, dangling strand of pus on his shoulder blade. He twirled around every so often to see if anyone had followed him. Did I clean everything up? Maybe I left a trace. His paranoia surged as he went through the door at the end of the corridor.
He had to act fast. He charged toward some preparation labs and found the sink. As he was washing his stump, stifling the agony, footsteps and loud voices carried down the hallway near him. He quickly buried his stump in the sink and acted as if he were cleaning some instruments.
The voices reached their climax as two figures entered the laboratory. They briefly looked toward his direction and nodded. As fast as they came, they were gone.
Thank goodness.
He finished wrapping the stump in a thick bandage loaded with Medi-A. He found a new lab coat in the metal locker nearby, replacing his old one. In a matter of seconds, he was walking toward the exit, hand and stump tucked away in the pockets.
Back to austere hallways, his eyes watered with pain. He approached the Conference Station doors, leaned, and peeked inside. Everything looked clear. The amphitheater was empty. Once I pass this I’m practically home free!
“Doctor Kipling . . .”
He stopped, expelling choppy breaths.
The Vice President stood behind him at the end of the hallway. “Where are you going?”
The light fixture’s buzzing
More jeers and taunts egged us on as we laid down a few more cards. The game was taut. But he was about to break. I had him.
“Come on Wenton, give it up,” he spat, ravening for the lust of money.
I merely smiled, and knew I had him beat. His bluff was ridiculous.
“Play that one, Patty!” said his mistress, trying to encourage him.
Just shut up, I remembered thinking.
“Lucy, stop it, just stop it! Let me have some room.”
He was getting nervous. He knew the stakes were high.
He moved his arm and laid down his last card. That was it! I had him! I smiled and followed suit in a triumphant manner.
“ No! ” he roared.
The crowd around us taunted him and cheered me. I gloatingly bore my teeth and tried not to laugh. I shoveled the chips my way as he glared. His woman tried to comfort him, but he remained motionless and annoyed.
At first I thought it was the wind. But when the earsplitting shriek came a second time, the music stopped. Everyone left the table and crowded around the threshold leading to the dance floor. More screaming erupted from inside followed by “somebody call 9-1-1!”
I didn’t move, though. I started pocketing my chips as fast as I could. The club could figure this out. Not me.
Right by my ear, another glass-shattering cry occurred, making me spill a load of chips onto the floor. I turned to see what was wrong and fell off my chair in disgust.
All at once, I jolted back to reality—back to Terra-Masou.
My arm was twitching underneath the table. I looked down at the convulsing flesh and wondered what the hell was happening. I flexed my forearm and gripped my wrist. The shaking stopped. Then I remembered.
My addiction. Adrenoprene. I licked my lips and hungered for the titillating energy. I subconsciously started to plot a way to have my fix.
9
Doctor Kipling’s footsteps echoed down the long corridor. The off-white walls were making his bloodshot eyes swell and strain. The fear underneath his skin shuddered.
No one knows, though. Calm down, Peter!
He gripped his bloody stump of a hand and continued toward his destination. Axxiol was extremely quiet this time of night, which made things a lot worse. His feet were sopping wet from the incident and they made a distinct squishy noise with each footstep. He was mostly in shock; feeling only twinges of pain every other step.
His lab coat was ripped at various places and a huge red smear covered his right sleeve. There were specs of greenish ooze all over his coat, and a sole, dangling strand of pus on his shoulder blade. He twirled around every so often to see if anyone had followed him. Did I clean everything up? Maybe I left a trace. His paranoia surged as he went through the door at the end of the corridor.
He had to act fast. He charged toward some preparation labs and found the sink. As he was washing his stump, stifling the agony, footsteps and loud voices carried down the hallway near him. He quickly buried his stump in the sink and acted as if he were cleaning some instruments.
The voices reached their climax as two figures entered the laboratory. They briefly looked toward his direction and nodded. As fast as they came, they were gone.
Thank goodness.
He finished wrapping the stump in a thick bandage loaded with Medi-A. He found a new lab coat in the metal locker nearby, replacing his old one. In a matter of seconds, he was walking toward the exit, hand and stump tucked away in the pockets.
Back to austere hallways, his eyes watered with pain. He approached the Conference Station doors, leaned, and peeked inside. Everything looked clear. The amphitheater was empty. Once I pass this I’m practically home free!
“Doctor Kipling . . .”
He stopped, expelling choppy breaths.
The Vice President stood behind him at the end of the hallway. “Where are you going?”
The light fixture’s buzzing
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