The voice annoys.
Darren Astonowski ignores the persistence, and a blaring apoxia alarm, because he desires nothing but to go back to sleep, and does for a single moment longer.
You really should be awake for this.
For what? He questions the voice from his perfect-blissful-sleep.
Seriously, take a look. You’ll never see anything like this again. Promise.
He attempts to roll over, but of course, he can’t, wrapped up in the many protective layers of an EVA suit as he is. Instead, the effort jolts him out of a stationary position, and he begins a lazy roll through space. The roll orientates him into an ‘up’ position, as if helped. He opens his eyes and stares into infinity.
The starfield, heaven, is cold, and there, and forever. Impossible. It stares back, dreadful, juxtaposed on the tiny blip that looks like his shuttle.
So far away, huh?
Then fear wraps itself around him. It squeezes. Colorful is this moment, colorful like the tentacles dragging him into deep space, colorful like being lost and helpless. It is a simple emotion, yet he is trapped by it.
Are you trapped?
He turns his wrist and studies his heads-up-display. The boosters show full power, so with a chuckle at being scared, because astronauts don’t get scared, he hits the button, and they fire.
Ha, he screams at the ether separating him from death.
Ha, he screams when the ether won’t let go.
Instead, a deep pulling by the tentacles holds him. Well, that and terror. Terror at death. Terror at the thing that won’t let him go. The engines spark in frustration and die, adding another alarm to the din inside his helmet.
Evil laughter also fills his head.
No fool, not that, this!
Turned over, an act his system does not like, causing it to spit even more alarms about g-force and friction and the inevitable destruction of the instrument inside known as human. He is unworried about the pain and possibility of system failure, for as he orientates ‘up’ again, a spectrum of colors, like light blasted through a prism, fills his display. The giant tentacled monster opens a fang-lined siphon, and with a slurp of pain, Darren Astonowski’s dying is done.
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