“But I am certain it must have been alive once. And by the look of its twisted, grotesque form, I believe it must have suffered greatly before its expiration. I cough and wipe a hand over my mouth and nose to stifle an impulse to gag. “Control, did something go wrong with the transport?” No. “Then this . . . thing lived on Castor’s World?” Yes. “And this is just one of many?” Yes. Pity is not something the real me has felt for a long time. I usually only experience it... when living another’s life, but I feel it now. This poor mummified monstrosity on the transportation disc is little more than the clay trimmed from Nature’s mold, beaten into a mockery of the human form. Naked, much of its skin is split where a mass underneath has burst through in clusters of blackened polyps; the untorn patches are red and glistening with sores or clumps of wiry black hair.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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