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Hannah felt like shit. It was not the sort of shitty feeling that comes from a hangover. It was partly the sort of shitty feeling that you get when you are surrounded by assholes and everyone who ever meant anything to you is dead, and it was partly the sort of shitty feeling you get when you realize that you yourself are also an asshole and you recognize that part of you is also dead and maybe the rest should be as well.
She sat there for a long time, just feeling it. Then, suddenly, she bored of it and decided to do something different. She picked herself up off the ground and gave the dispenser an awkward sort of hug.
“This is for you, mom,” she whispered to the dispenser. Then slowly and carefully in the half dark, using her foot as a makeshift broom, she swept up the broken shards of bottle and dispenser into a neat pile, and pushed it up against the wall, out of the way. She then began to collect up the dozens of Omega Bar wrappers that littered the room.
As she worked, she hummed quietly, matching tones with the creaking and roaring sounds emanating from the ship. It was a game she had enjoyed as a child, finding the exact frequency, and then altering her own tone ever so slightly higher or lower so that her voice formed a throbbing beat frequency with the original signal, the interference patterns creating a slow rhythm whose frequency was the difference between the two primary sources. The sounds of the ship were a constantly changing subtlety. Groans, underlay shimmies atop the always present rumbles. These were the classic spaceship sounds. Now though there were other sounds. A deep rhythmic thudding that she tried to ignore as it did not play well into her game, and a series of relatively high pitched squeals. The squeals were in the right range for the game, and were an excellent challenge, as their tone rose and fell a bit too fast to allow time for an easy pitch match. She had to constantly adjust in order to maintain the interference. The game now required more of her attention, so she stopped picking up trash for the moment. For a few minutes, the squeals continued to rise, both in pitch and volume. Then, suddenly, with a tumultuous screech added in, they reached a fever pitch like an orchestral climax - and the emergency lighting failed, plunging her into total darkness.
The shriek ended in a nerve-grating metallic tearing sound, after which many of the higher pitched whines died out, leaving only a multilayered tapestry of low rumbles and an odd whistling wind. Far away, an alarm klaxon rang out at even intervals. A few bangs and pings reverberated through the walls and floor like a struck bell.
In the darkness she noticed the rhythm of her own pulse, though her perception of it was more a feeling than a hearing, it seemed to course past her eardrums, her eyelids, her armpits. She shut her eyes tightly, and opened them again. She waved her hand in front of her face. Not even a flicker was visible.
“Shit,” she declared. “Shit, Shit, Shit.”
“HELLO!”
The robot always monitored her. She had figured that out long ago. He creepily watched her every move.
“HELLOOO! It’s pitch dark in here! The emergency lights went out! I can’t see a fucking thing! It’s NOT COOL!”
Nothing happened.
“Come on! Are you shitting me.” This was said more to herself, in a low voice, almost under her breath.
“Dammit. Is he doing this on purpose?”
“FUCK YOU ROBOT!”
“WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER?”
“Oh OK sure - I get it. It’s the rapist’s idea.”
“FUCK YOU TOO YOU FUCKIN ASSHOLE - FUCK YOU BOTH!”
A few minutes passed as she tried to think logically about the situation. This SUCKS. That robot is an asshole. But still... would he actually do this on purpose? Would he just let this happen? Could he just let this happen? He’s a doctor. He’s a brainless doctor. He was programmed, albeit very shittily, to protect her. He couldn’t actually think. He couldn’t do this even if he wanted to.
“Shit.”
In a way that made it worse. That meant something was very broken. Was the robot even still alive - I mean not alive, but well, whatever - working? Maybe he was destroyed in whatever that horrible sound was. Maybe the other guy was too. It would serve him right. That fuckin’ creep. Maybe they were both destroyed and she would never have to see either of those assholes ever again.
“Oh God.”