The Soup

Apartment 101. The Director’s Suite.

The dining table was set with fine china. A bottle of vintage wine breathed on the sideboard.

Silas sat at the head of the table. His suit was impeccable. His hands were steady.

Opposite him sat Lyra.

She wore a blue silk dress. The scar on her temple was hidden by her hair. She sat perfectly still, hands folded.

"The soup," Silas said gently. "It’s vichyssoise. Do you like it?"

Lyra picked up her spoon. Her movements were jerky, mechanical. She swallowed without tasting. A drop of soup landed on her chin. She didn't wipe it away.

She looked at a point over Silas’s shoulder. Her eyes were dull, flat.

"It is adequate," Lyra said. Her voice was a monotone drone. "Nutritional requirements met. Thank you, Provider."

Silas stared at her. He looked for the spark. He would give anything for her to scream at him, to try to kill him.

"Lyra," he said. "Look at me."

She turned her head. There was no recognition. No hate. No love. Just biology processing visual data.

"Input received," she said.

Silas reached for his wine glass. His hand shook. A single tremor.

He took a sip. It tasted like copper. Like blood.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away with a linen napkin and composed his face into a mask of perfect, cured indifference.

"Finish your meal," Silas ordered.

"Yes, Provider," the shell replied.

Silas ate in silence, the scraping of the spoon loud as a scream in the quiet tomb of his life.