DDB

He pushes the stretcher down the dimly lit hallway, the smell of rust and mildew familiar and comforting. His footsteps echo off the metal flooring, but he smiles to himself, preferring the emptiness. An overhead light flickers. It has always flickered. He stops at a side doorway, looking up and down the deserted hallway, forever a creature of caution and habit. He slides the stolen identicard through the security lock and the door hisses open, a fetid stench of medical fluids and rotting flesh escaping from within. He pauses, closing his eyes, breathing the sweet perfume of death and decay in deeply. He had stolen fake credentials from a level three clone technician months previous. Of course, this Minmatar station, like so many others, had fallen into disrepair long before his covert hobby ever existed. Nobody would notice any abnormalities within the security logs until the annual review, which wasn’t for another four months. Provided he didn’t do anything obvious to raise suspicions, he would be left undisturbed.

He backs into the dark room and quickly pulls the gurney in behind him. It bangs slightly against the doorway, reverberating far too loudly for his peace of mind. With gritted teeth he quickly scans up and down the empty corridor, cursing himself inwardly for his carelessness.

He slowly moves forward deeper into the room, which is lit minimally from above, and is several degrees cooler than the hallway outside. His eyes are wide open with the same sense of boyish wonder as the first time he had discovered this place. It was his sanctuary, his fortress of solitude, his trophy room. His shoulder brushed by one of the countless and heavy industrial steel chains, hanging from the ceiling. A large hook hung from the bottom of the chain. Not all the hooks were empty of course. This particular one had a bit of dried blood on it he noticed upon further examination. That wasn’t good, not good at all. He was always so detail oriented. He didn’t leave clues.

He continues down the room, one wheel on the stretcher rolling around loosely, creating an irregular rhythm to his pace. His wonder filled eyes widen even further as he looks upon the face of a bald Brutor, eyes closed, hanging from a chain to his left. The man is muscular, a complex tribal tattoo starting from the side of his face and wrapping its way around his chest and back. It’s a glorious marking. He remembers this one as clearly as he does all of his trophies.

The man lets go of the gurney and puts his face against the cheek of the Minmatar in front of him. He breathes in deeply again, yearning for the individual scent of each of his trophies. “Ah yes,” he says out loud to no one. “661699191. I’ve seen you on GalNet. Quite the loud one. You’re one of my favourites. I don’t get to see all of you. No, no, most I never see. But you, you’re one of the special ones.” He brushes the back of one of his hands delicately down the cheek of the man, causing a very slight sway in the chain that holds him. “Now you have no tongue.” the man says to himself with sheer glee. “Not so loud, are you?” he squeals. “No tongue. No tongue.” he sings merrily as he walks back towards the stretcher awaiting him.

He had been part of the station’s capsuleer medical facility for nearly twelve years. It was a thankless job. He had never been considered intelligent and had thusly never achieved a higher rank or position in life than what he did currently, which was, for lack of a better term, defective clone disposal. It happened sometimes. Nobody really understood Jovian technology. It was just trusted to work. When it didn’t, the defective clone was usually melted down into a recycled paste to be used in the construction of a new clone, but sometimes, just sometimes, he was able to have the corpse flagged as “not fit for recycle”. He could never be greedy. He had to be patient. It had paid off. He has over fifty defective clone corpses stored in his cold room now. Him, a nobody, a nothing, a keeper of immortals. His control of his own fate is deliciously ironic to his demented mind.

He doesn’t have much farther to go, and soon is transferring his latest defective clone from the stretcher to a cold metallic table. He can hardly contain his excitement, fumbling for a spotlight to shine on her. He cuts through the plastic disposal wrapping carefully, making sure that not a single mark will blemish his prize. When he finishes, he finds himself salivating with anticipation. She is beautiful from head to toe, and laid bare before him.

He climbs onto the table, laying on his side beside her, and gently lets his fingertips work their way up and down her form. He can feel the surge of excitement in his pants, but wants to make this first and special moment last as long as possible.

He kisses her cold, lifeless skin, delighting in every stolen moment. He breathes her in deeply, a new aroma to etch into his mind. He looks down upon her chest, smiling deeply. “They’re fools, you know.” he says to her, his hand cupping around her left breast. “You’re not imperfect at all.”

The clone had been rejected due to the fact that one breast was a DD cup, the other a B cup.

With a savage urgency that surprises even him, he can contain himself no longer. Clumsily, his belt comes undone and his pants come off as he rolls over on the table, onto her, to satisfy his needs.

“You’re not imperfect at all.”

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