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Creative Writing: The Virus

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Whatever remained was usurped by Pandora’s gravitational pull. The remnants of smashed shrapnel circled aimlessly about in the soundless vacuum called space, occasionally making impact with its bigger counterparts. The resulting explosion was soundless, like watching a black and white silent film on the big screen. If sound was present, it would have been enough to rest Jack from his death throes, but something else beat the jettisoned space junk to the punch. In his dreams he likened it to a wraith; the omnipresent shadow of a woman lurching over his corpse when all he could see were geysers of red erupting around him. After escaping with the starmap, Lillith, Roland and the other vault hunters left Jack for dead. With the Destroyer subdued…show more content…
The walls were eked out in a gaudy, canary yellow, splashed with the low hanging buzz of swaying light fixtures. He couldn’t tell which was more yellow—the lights, or the paint. Regardless, he instinctively touched his face, flinching when the memories flooded back. He was convinced he should be feeling agony when in retrospect, he felt nothing but the gloved pads of his fingertips. He caught his reflection on a fragment of shattered glass—he was handsome. Handsome-er, even. “This isn’t right.” He threw his weight from what appeared to be a table, flat, but humming with life, depicting a detailed map of Hyperion’s research facility.

Much to his chagrin, there was no cognitive AI chronicling the events on Pandora; he couldn’t just ask a haphazard fixit loader what had transpired. Theoretically he could, but it would just veer off on a tangent about the broken state of the station. Frazzled, Jack collected his wits and made his way to an adjacent exit. The lights flickered. Outside of the glass pane doors broken black wires, like electric eels, writhed and swayed in the misconstrued gravity. From the far edge of the corridor he could hear a sound. A voice. It reminded him of the angel that saved him, or rather, the one he saw in his
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The locals thought it a gem but truthfully, it was a fetid hunk of sulfur wreaking of shit and slag.

“Hey!” he hollered. His voice was skewed, but only from thirst. His eyes were unable to adjust to the darkness, but he knew the sound of a female voice as well as he knew a mirror—very well, if it was up for discussion. “I need to know what the hell is going on here. Now. Start talking, lady.” The darkness was deceiving. “You know. Talking. That thing where you move your lips and generally unfavorable sounds fall
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