The Downward Spiral pt.3

Here is part 3 to my short story The Downward Spiral. If you didn't catch the other parts they are as follows:

Part 1
Part 2

[Henri’s Quarters]

Henri sat in his quarters against a wall on the floor. He left the bridge and had immediately gone to his room. Why bother going anywhere else? He leaned against the wall, a few feet from the door with his head in his hands. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to thrash about the room and tear it apart. There was no point. What could he do that wouldn't be fixed in a few seconds by the plunders of modern technology? What could he do to break the cycle

He rose from the floor with a groan and hovered to the replicator. "Whiskey" was all he said in a gruff voice.

{Synthohol is all that is available aboard Starfleet vessels. Would you like Synthohol whiskey?}, the computer replied, in a response warmer than Henri had received in days. Disgusted by the jovial reply, Russo swung a punch at the machine and heard a crack. He wasn't sure if it was the polymer on the replicator or the bones of his hand. He was numb to sensation of any kind. Without the relief of vacation from consciousness, Henri tripped back to his spot on the wall, in between his bed and the door. Sitting, Henri reached under his bed for a small, metal box.

With his legs outstretched, he slid the box in between them. The box could end this void of feeling in his pitiable life. The box could erase his apathy. Russo left the box where it was and resumed his stance, head in hands, against the wall. The pathetic lieutenant could make nothing different in life. His childhood made no mark on the world. His career in Starfleet made no one's planet a better place to be. He was in charge of power distribution of a star ship, a task that he could have automated months ago. He was a worthless cog that could be taken out of the machine with no consequence to the rest of the rushing locomotive of the crew. So why shouldn't he. Why shouldn't he take himself out of the gears of the locomotive?

Henri slapped the lid off of the box and reached for the glinting savior inside. The box could perpetuate the status quo, but without the worthless cog. Efficiency at work. Evolution in a sense. Natural Selection at its finest. The self-removal of the weak. What else could Darwin have asked for?

Henri held the Carbon-fiber Conservator to his chin and sighed. Why shouldn't he? There would be a short investigation, an open-and-shut case. No harm to anyone, just the automation of banal duties and a story to tell the new recruits; The Ops officer that went off the deep end. Even if he was remembered as a crazy and a basket-case, is being remembered as a perverted crack-pot any worse than not being remembered at all? The cold metal of the messiah at his chin was warming. His decision was made and it was time for decisive action.

Henri tensed his hand to pull the trigger, but nothing happened. Brain waves sent the message to the nerves. Nerves told the muscles to move. Tendons tightened and ligaments constricted. The broken bones of Henri's fingers slackened the muscles and nothing happened. Nothing. Just as every other moment in Henri's pathetic life, nothing happened.

Henri dropped the ancient hand gun from his limp hand to the floor beside him and replaced his head in his hands. As he sat in the dark corner, Henri Russo wept.

And that's all folks. I plan on writing some other fiction sometime soon. And for those who celebrate it, Happy Christmas.

~Mike

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