The continued cycle of murders and lynching had done nothing for the crew?s morale. The armed standoff between Maeror and the others had only been a symptom of a sickness that had long held these unfortunates in it?s grasp. Fear.
Slung over Gremlin?s shoulder like a bound prisoner, Irish was escorted to his null-chamber. As Gremlin gently lobbed the wretch onto the soft floor of the chamber, he formed the sign of the Aquila on his chest as per the Inquisitor?s instructions and sealed the door. He climbed into the Singing Gremlin and quickly dozed off in her cold, comforting arms.
Meanwhile, Maeror fitfully slept in his room. The past few days had seemed to bring out the worst in him and he had a hard time coping. After hours of tossing and turning, he got out of his bunk and stumbled into the mess hall.
The dim blue light of the hall showed a series of short benches which could have comfortably seated the ship?s previous crew but now seemed as desolate as ghost towns. Few people ever frequented the galley anymore since the cook was summarily executed and Larenxis kept the rest content with his sandwiches.
Maeror lurched forwards and collided with a particularly sturdy liquor cabinet. Soothing his injured shoulder, he reached in and pulled out a bottle of whatever looked good. He pulled out the bottle, popped the top off, and greedily drank it all in a quick burst. This continued until several containers lay empty on the floor.
With a belly full of liquid confidence, he strode into the hold, albeit shakily. He brought his pistol up and fired it straight into the control panel. A whir-and-click signaled the lock had been deactivated and he slowly heaved the cumbersome door open.
The camera in the control booth recorded what followed. Maeror tentatively walked towards Irish, a bottle in one hand, a pistol in the other. The surveillance system picked up something along the lines of ?Eye?ll ficksh yew right up, ya lil? freak.? As he shot out the chains binding Irish and lifted the pistol to deliver the final blow, Irish snapped out of his drug-induced sleep. The demon in him roared in displeasure.
After this the events were a bit sketchy. The camera showed that Irish muttered something and Maeror?s skin opened up in all manner of unseemly lacerations. A flick of the wrist crushed his spine and a final glance, Irish incinerated the pistol and beads of molten metal dripped down Maeror?s arm.
Hours later, the two were found lying in the chamber. Maeror clearly dead and Irish seemed near death himself. The demon had used up much of his own energy in his defense. Both were moved into the medical bay. One placed in a small life support tank, the other into the cremation chute.
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Maeror?s character description finally lent itself to some convenience on my part and Irish is now in the tank, but still alive and able to communicate, just a bit sleepy is all.
