Page 30 of Bred

He raises one arm in a threatening proto-swat fashion.

“Oh. Wait. There it is,” I say, grabbing my suit out from under the covers. It must have got tangled up there in the middle of proceedings. I pull it on while Shank waits impatiently.

“What about my shoes?”

“Leave them,” he says. Grabbing me up by the arm, he tosses me over his shoulder, reaching back to hold me in place as he moves at a fast clip through the ship.

The mood of the vessel has changed. Right now, everybody seems to be on the move. It reminds me of an ant hive being disturbed, all the workers rushing back and forth, taking precious things to safer places.

Apparently, I am one of them.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Seriously. Are we under attack?”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Shank repeats as he dumps me without any real ceremony into what amounts to a cell the size of a closet, basically a claustrophobia generator. “Don’t worry, just breathe.”

“Well, of course I’m going to breathe. What else can I do? Wha...”

The closet cell is filling with gas. Holy fuck... I start to slam at the door, trying to escape, but there’s no way out. I can see Shank through a clear plate near my face. He’s standing there, watching me impassively as the sweet scent rises all around me, pink and green tendrils of gaseous smoke wrapping around me and finding their way up my nostrils.

I hold my breath as long as I can, but it’s not long enough. Eventually I have to take a breath, and in that moment, the world disappears.

* * *

Three days later...

I wake up strapped to a bed. Something with big dark eyes is looming over me, a sharp scalpel in its wiry, twisted little hand. It looks just like images I’ve seen in the past in old textbooks, ancient conceptions of what aliens looked like.

“What the fuck...”

It makes a squeaking, clicking sound and waves its hand at me. It has round pads on its fingers, like a frog. It looks ridiculous, but it still has a sharp thing in its hand, which is of concern.

I look down and see that we did not just begin. I am...open. Unzipped like a Lyra suit. My insides are...

Oh, fuck.

“I told you not to use that gas on her,” another alien growls. “It’s not designed for her physiology.”

“What was I supposed to use?” the one above me snarls back. “She had to be unconscious for days. I don’t know any other way to safely achieve that.”

“Let me go!” I scream. “Zip me up! I don’t want my insides on the outside!”

* * *

Talon

Lyra is flailing at her stomach, forcing us to restrain her to stop her from stuffing the bed sheets into her clothing. She seems to think her outer attire is her skin, and the sheets are her entrails and apparently she’s going to put them all back in.

“My heart! You stole my heart!”

She grabs Shank’s communicator badge and shoves it down her top. When he tries to retrieve it, she sinks her teeth into his hand hard enough to draw plasm from his skin.

“Sedate her!” Shank insists.

“You already tried to do that and look what happened. Why did you drug her? I told you not to. I told you to stay with her.”

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