ash

The darkness echoes. There is a dim glow. Ahead a slicing of light from Jean's torch illuminates the metal corridor. The Captain is in the doorway of the control centre. His hands are made of ash. They hang loosely at his sides. Gray overlays black-flecked scales. Loose white flakes drift loose, catching on his clothes, the floor and the walls. He raises his left hand, deep within the ash a red glow kindles, his crumbling hand points, the finger melting and falling as a cone of powder that lands and rolls along the floor carried by the internal convection wind of the ship. Jean looks to where he is pointing. There is nothing he can see. The Captain falls, his body consumed by the burn, falling to dust.