He eyed the timing it would take for them to get to Libra. Three days if the port had a spot for his ship. Three days until he could have a better outlet than his hand. He stared at the tent in his uniform. Hysterian reached down and squeezed the growing bulge.
He knew why he suffered.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Once, he’d been head interrogator. During the war, he was known as the Tormentor because of his special ability. He could ingest any poison—toxin or otherwise—and his systems could replicate it within seconds. With a small touch, he could make men scream, go mad, or spill their guts and come clean.
He just couldn’t make his secretion benign…
Traitors, deserters, murderers, and spies were delivered to him, and it’d been his job to get them to confess, and during the war for which he’d been made for, his superiors brought him droves of prisoners. He could make anyone confess. If not with torture…with getting them ravenously addicted to him.
He smirked, remembering the good times.
Hysterian had more control then. He had an endless outlet that kept him satisfied.
He’d come to realize he’d been built wrong as the years went by, as the bodies piled up. He may have not spent much time on the front lines of the war, bringing down battleships, but he’d killed more than his fair share. And unlike his brethren, he was tasked to kill and torture humans.
Stepping into Dimes and becoming Raphael’s glorified pet had been an easy transition after Hysterian left the service.
Almost too easy.
He rubbed his shaft through his pants.
He always envied human men who could commit atrocities and not be bothered by it. He didn’t know how they did it, being entirely made of organic matter. If he didn’t have his systems to check him, to manually lessen his emotions, he wouldn’t know what would become of him.
I’ve spent my whole existence perverting life. And sex…He squeezed his cock again. Sex creates life. At least it could…
It wouldn’t fix him but he hoped it would help. And he didn’t want to create life as much as lose himself in the act of it.
Somewhere, in the back of his royally screwed up DNA, his animal demanded he fertilize. Fertilize what? Who the fuck knew? Humans didn’t fucking lay eggs. And there was no pleasure in the thought. But he was certain, until his animal was wholly satisfied, he was never going to stop overproducing secretion at the merest touch. A primitive need demanded he spill until his animal was appeased.
He was built wrong because his fucking doctors and engineers didn’t account for a frog’s mating habits.
If he’d known then what he knew now, he would have killed them all for their sins.
Hysterian’s mood soured. The silence became too much, and the incessant buzzing! His tongue begged him to be released and snap at everything that hummed. He shot to his feet and stormed out of the bridge. Nothing would help until he got into the shower.
Laughter sounded down the hallway. It came from the lounge at the end of the hall.
Clenching his hands, his frustration built.
More laughter reached his ears, and he immediately recognized Alexa’s. She was laughing? Her? Of all the people he’d ever encountered, he never imagined his by-the-book cold crew hand laughing. Had he ever seen her happy, or even pleased, in the month they’d traveled together?
Her blushes, her anger came to mind, but for the life of him, he could not bring an image to his head of Alexa with a smile on her face. He didn’t have one stored. He didn’t even have a fake one created for his amusement.
Hysterian stopped and stood outside the lounge.
“It’s not like you have a better choice. It’s either this shit or liquid brown.”
“Liquid brown?”
“The crap you guys call coffee,” Raul said.
“Even calling the sludge on this ship liquid brown is too much. It’s acid scum,” Horace grunted.
“Or Locust piss!”
There was more laughter.
