Kindly Extinct

Prologue.

Aboard the CF. Compass,

Asteroid Cluster 34K,

Monday.

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The descender chassis slowly rumbled. Clifford (Or Cliff, as he’s known by his peers) shuffled awkwardly in his position, occasionally glancing at his erstwhile entourage. Four men dressed in chrome combat gear stood, like onyx statues, in either corner of the chassis: Rifled clenched tightly across their chests. Occasionally Cliff wondered if they even realized he was there – but the elevator was the size of a small car so that hypothesis was unreliable. Finally, the descender’s movement halted: giving birth to a few moments silence before a cacophony of gears were audible from behind the walls as the door hauled itself open. The silence of the elevator chassis was eroded by the harmonic stillness of the revealed corridor. It was a plain white, round passage that stretched down a few tens of meters. At the end was a responsibly sized, circular door with a small key-card slot that hung next to it like a light switch. Cliff started off down the pass, the chromers followed; their heavy, metallic boots emitting a steely echo that painted the atmosphere with a sinister discord.  

 Cliff reached the door, shoving his hand into his white button-up’s breast pocket, equipping a miniature plastic card that he pushed into the key-card slot. A mechanical whirr could be heard from the device before the door suddenly shot open, its speed contrasting that with the descender’s. Inside was a room with a large, black window at the end that made up the far wall. An odd chair was dotted here and there as well as a singular table with cold, white mugs of tea resting on it like hardened statues. A chromer approached the black glass; resting it’s palm on it’s icy surface. There was a sharp beep as the glass suddenly went transparent, revealing a figure on the other side. ‘One way glass…’ Cliff thought to himself, his apprehension growing. To his discontent and displeasure he saw a figure resting on their knees on the other side of the glass – their face staring at the floor like a depressed child. The chromer approached. The figure looked up; revealing the soft features of a woman in her late twenties. She had light blue eyes and hazelnut hair that hung down her face like rags. Like snapping out of a dream, he suddenly saw the chromer raise his rifle at the woman: who still was not paying attention to them nor Clifford in the slightest. That was until the chromer switched the safety of his rifle – releasing a quiet, yet high-pitch whirr. She suddenly looked up, eyes making contact with Cliff’s. He was no therapist but he knew those were the eyes of a distressed human being. Abruptly, a blue light erupted out of the nozzle of the chromer’s rifle in form of a acute muzzle flash, emitting a loud bang. He shouted out a cry of resistance but it was far beyond the point of refrainment. The woman’s head exploded