The Destroyer decided to ask the crew for his freedom one last time. Before he escaped, that is.
If the crew said yes, the Destroyer could be out a few minutes sooner than he planned. More time to eat.
The Destroyer was sure the crew would say no. But hope springs eternally springy, thought one of the Destroyer's minds, the one that enjoyed writing bad poetry.
“I just had a great idea!” the Destroyer said.
No one said anything.
“I said, ‘I just had a great idea!’” the Destroyer said.
The crew didn’t respond.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” the Destroyer asked.
“Entity 107, you do not need our permission to speak,” Prnei said.
“Un … for … tun … ate … ly,” Anderson said.
“Could you have said that any slower?” Jeska asked.
“Y … ehhhh … ssssss,” Anderson said.
“Sometimes I like to change it up and ask permission,” the Destroyer said.
“You do it to irritate us, Entity 107,” Prnei said.
“Never!” the Destroyer said. He paused again. “Do you want to hear my great idea now?”
“It's not a great idea. You’re just going to say, ‘Let me out,’” Jeska said.
“That’s not true. And my idea—which is not 'Let me out'— is a great idea,” the Destroyer lied.
“No. I raise you five,” Jeska said.
“I’m all in. You want to hear my idea now?” the Destroyer said.
“No … chance,” Anderson said.
The Destroyer didn't care what they said; he was feeling lucky.
He could almost taste the shooting stars of whirling galaxies, the blue moons of ancient planets, and the green clovers of a thousand inhabited systems.
After his 2.7 billion-year confinement, the Destroyer was sure of one thing.
Universe 7C would be magically delicious.