“Too good,” an unseen robot translated. “More,” another said. “My destiny.”
The Sticker kicked to get free; the Princess caught that leg in her mouth and took it off at the kneecap. Heart racing, blood pumping free of his leg and shoulder, the Sticker closed his eyes and tried to think of Annette, the good times, only the good times. It was difficult to concentrate though, listening to his body parts being sloppily consumed. Another roar of hunger filled the room and shock overtook him.
The Sticker passed out hearing the tremendous, insatiable wailings of the Princess, and this horrific, soul-rattling sound was the same thing that woke him.
But he was in a different place now. He’d been here once before to get bandaged up by robots, after he took that beating on the last job. The medical bay…
Why was he here now?
The Sticker glanced down at the frayed veins and bone protruding down from his shoulder. A thin blue coating of some medicinal chemical sealed everything off, almost like plastic wrap around a chicken drumstick. He couldn’t see his leg stump from this prone position, but it had the same tight feeling down there.
Oddly, but not so oddly, his good leg rested in a rectangular pan of brine, and his good arm soaked in another concoction that smelled of vinegar and spices.
Variety, he thought with a sickening inward twinge.
He tried to move but found his body strapped to the exam table like Frankenstein’s monster. Only they aren’t giving me body parts; they’re taking them.
The Princess’s screams heightened to eardrum piercing levels. He’d never heard her so worked up. The maddening repetition of screeches and tantrum sobs worked at the Sticker’s shredded mind. He wanted to scream with her. He almost began to sympathize with her pain. He almost wanted to end it as much as he figured she did.
But he wanted to live, too.
Live? What life do you have now? You’re going back with less than you came with. Hell… you’ll be like one of those sad, sorry fucks begging near the freeway. LOST JOB, LEG AND ARM. GOT A DOLLAR?
“Shit,” he laughed.
A calm robot voice came over the ship intercom. “Additional hands required to assist with enzyme blending and conveyance. Immediate need. Code 78-9 directive.”
That didn’t sound good. The announcement wasn’t exactly the same as others the Sticker had heard in previous months, but usually more enzymes meant more eating. Just how long had she planned on marinating him here? And why? She’d never done such a thing with her other meals. Certainly not Harper or Timothy.
She likes your taste.
Invisible knives sunk into the core of both his stumps and the Sticker shouted out, blinded by white hot pain. Whatever that blue plastic seal stuff was, it didn’t have anything to take the edge off. The sedative Timothy had pumped into him wore off sometime during his blackout. This next go round with the Princess would be au natural. Would she leave him alive again? Slowly take him apart piece by piece? Or would this next time be the end to all of this?
“Critical need. Code 98-9 directive,” the overhead droned.
Good, maybe I upset her stomach. Maybe she’ll die.
The Princess answered this by suddenly going quiet. The screaming stopped.
The Sticker lay there, staring at the dim canned lights in the ceiling of the med bay. New thoughts raced through his head. If she did die, what would the robots do? Let him rot here, more than likely.
After twenty minutes had passed, those sorted fantasies faded. The Princess began to groan and call again, more fervently than ever.
From down the hall, padded robot feet sounded in parade. The Sticker twisted once in his bindings, just to reassure himself there wasn’t a weakness he hadn’t exploited. The bindings held firmly.
The med bay door opened and the red gelatin bodies of the ship’s robots quickly filled the room, seeming eager to complete their tasks.
Losing no time, they stuck a boom into the side of the collar still snug around his throat. They untied the two straps around his body and pushed him into a sitting position. The Sticker yelped as barbed strings of agony pulled through his chest and groin. The robots disengaged the wheel locks on the exam table, and pushed him out of the med bay. He wanted to grab one of them or grab the boom, but that would mean letting go of the table, and thereby choking himself.
The calls from the Princess intensified as they neared the audience chamber. At the urgency of her tone, the robots pushed the exam table faster.
Here we go.
As they turned the corner and he caught sight of the room, the Sticker straightened and cold resolve shot through his gut out to his extremities, real and ghost alike.
Fuck this.
He swung his leg hard and smashed a robot in the face with his heel. The gummy substance of its face was nothing like the candy, however. Bones bruised and fractured in his foot on impact. He would have yelled out but the air was taken from his lungs as his weight pitched the table sideways.
The robots moved with merciless grace and righted the table.
The Sticker pushed up on his only arm. A robot came around the table, red arms extended to capture him, diode eyes oscillating wildly.
His fingers brushed something. The boom! It’d disconnected from his collar. He wrapped his fingers gladly around it, picked it up and slammed it into the robot’s red skull. Hard vibrations shook his arm but he did it twice more, bending the metal end of the boom’s length. The robot, unhindered, continued toward him.
“All hands report to enzyme catalyst station,” the overhead blurted. “Repeat, all hands.”
The robot stopped, lowered its arms. It turned quickly on one heel and headed off with the others.
The Princess gurgled something in her own language from beyond the door.
The Sticker remembered the translation. More.
He grabbed the edge of the exam table and using the boom like a ski pole, got to a standing position. He headed for the membrane station. Several robots charged past him, no longer concerned with him.
Razz must have fouled the enzymes, he thought. His contingency plan.
The Sticker prayed the membrane station wasn’t locked again. If the Princess wasn’t dead, this happy little escape would be all for nothing.
His pace was dreadfully slow and unbalanced. He fell more times than he wished to count, but thankfully, not only was the door to the membrane station not locked, it wasn’t even attached anymore. The robots must have knocked it off its hinges attempting to stop Razz.
The Sticker activated the membranes like he’d remembered seeing. He painstakingly removed his collar as he waited for them to heat up. Returning to Limbus Los Angeles was still a hope-filled concept. Just because Razz went through this thing, didn’t mean he got sent back to the offices there.
Whatever happened was better than this, the Sticker decided.
When the time came for him to enter the membranes, he had to kneel, making him wonder about unintended consequences.
After enduring the insanity that was membrane transport, the Sticker realized he hadn’t returned exactly to the same place he’d left.
He was back at Limbus, but he wasn’t in the same station. Instead he was in the lobby, near the rotating globe, wailing gibberish at the top of his lungs. He fell sideways, having reformed in a standing position on one leg. As he collapsed on his face, several people in business attire rushed over to help him.
The Sticker glided his tongue over his teeth to re-taste the Frosted Flakes from the Limbus cafeteria earlier that morning. He’d forgotten how wonderful food could taste, having relied on his bio-suit for almost a year now.