Useless

     Hunted.

    That was the word to describe TOM, our hero, who was on the run from an intelligent lifeform that had snuck aboard his ship, the Neptunia. It was hyperfixtated on whatever TOM had done to it previously. TOM had been alien-hunting for awhile, so he had gaps in his memory about what the creatures he sought out were. Names and faces were hazy to him. But he had to remember what the hell it was.

    It resembled a hulking, red monster, covered in ooze. Ooze that resembled maroon-coloured pus. Definitely not a sight for those who're eating. Even TOM, who was a robot and couldn't consume normal food (at least those that weren't the size of a milligram to fit in the microscopic hole in his mouth), found it sickening to look at. But he had to carry on. After all, it wasn't as bad as some other aliens he'd hunted in the past.

    TOM trudged thru the dark, dusty chambers of the Neptunia's basement. Nothing was giving him any indication of where the creature could have been at the moment. TOM didn't even know what the creature even looked like, having only caught a few glimpses of its face. But he continued thru the corridor, hoping to locate the monster soon enough.

    It was unnaturally quiet right now. The only thing audible were the sound of TOM's footsteps moving cross the stainless steel floor. The robot was starting to lose his nerve. 

    Come ON, TOM! You're tough. Real tough. 

    Struggle as he might, there was no way for TOM to get in the right mindset as he surveyed his surroundings: dimly-lit metallic walls. It was almost pitch black, and TOM wasn't designed with a night vision function like higher-grade robots. On this sector of space, robots were classified by grades, especially if they were alien hunters. Higher grades were rewarded with fame and fortune, being swooned over by all the girls, and appearing on TV to be interviewed about their latest kills. Lower grades were treated like trash. If a lower-grade robot did so much as screw up or let a kill get away, they were sent to the scrap heap to be crushed to death. TOM certainly didn't want that.

    Suddenly, he heard something. Upon listening closely, he confirmed that the sound belonged to footsteps.

    Footsteps.

    TOM couldn't help but internally freak out. Was it the alien? Was it someone coming to help? TOM froze in fear, trying to camouflage himself with the rusty, dirty metal casings. One thing that prevented TOM from being sent to the scrap heap was his aptness at camouflaging.

    The footsteps drew closer, TOM fretting for his life. As long as he didn't make a sound, the monster wouldn't notice him. TOM concentrated as he blended with his surroundings.

    Please don't find me, please don't find me, please don't--

    A deafening SCREECH.

    The monster stormed into the dingy hallway, and turned right where TOM was hiding. Its eyes focused right on its target.

    Oh crap.

    It couldn't be fooled by camouflage.

    TOM sprung up and began to fight. He withdrew his silver gun from his satchel, gripping it tightly as he shot beam after beam of concentrated light at the creature, as it advanced ever so closer.

    What TOM didn't notice, however, was the portions of its slime, being flung madly as it moved unbridledly. And a glob of slime was headed directly towards TOM's right arm.

    TOM kept pressing the button on his gun, sending beams turned waves of light the creature's direction. Then, he felt it. The ooze landing on his arm.

    TOM jumped back, emitting a yell of pain. He had experienced injuries and wounds before while alien hunting, but no agony was as sheer as this. It was like a dagger spearing all the way into his arm, to the bone. He took a deep breath as he checked his arm.

    To his horror, the slime was rapidly expanding, engulfing his entire arm. He groaned in a combination of pain and shock as his arm was rendered useless, hyperventilating in fear as well as to block out the feeling. It hurt to the point where he had to find a way out. Normally, he'd never give up on tracking down a kill. But he was risking his life for treatment.

    TOM used his remaining left arm to fire a wave of light at the creature, stunning it temporarily. TOM watched as the giant stumbled round, blindly; then he turned in the opposite direction and darted thru the murky halls, refusing to look back.

    TOM made it out of the basement a few minutes later, holding his arm in discomfort. The pain had settled, as the numbness of a lost body part settled in. TOM was significantly less worried about being sent to the scrap heap after that experience with burning agony.

    TOM settled down in the cockpit of the Neptunia, mustering up the courage to talk to the Omnicron, the head of alien-hunting activities cross the galaxy.

    "Alexa," TOM said to his AI companion, nervously. "Call the Omnicron."

    Alexa's amicable voice chimed back, "Calling the Omnicron."

    As the dial tones rang, TOM pondered his decision to become an alien hunter.

    I'm a low-grade robot, really. My family were outcasts and treated like crap. I grew up alien hunting to survive. I taught MYSELF to hunt. My parents weren't going to feed themselves, and when Mom passed, it just made things worse. Dad wouldn't take care of me, so I had to take care of myself. If the scrap heap is beckoning my name now that my arm's rendered useless... then am I useless?

    Finally, the stout face of Dr. Noid, the CEO of the Omnicron, appeared on screen. TOM's mind was panicking, racing with regrets. But he decided to take a deep breath in and 'fess up.

    "I... I got in a scuffle, and now my arm's fucked up and infected," TOM said, lifting his useless right arm, covered in red bile. Dr. Noid looked repulsed.

    "TOM, you should've known better than to run away from a kill," he said.

    TOM started to look worried. Is this it? Is this the end for me?

    However, what Dr. Noid said next shook TOM's world.

    "It's okay, though."

    TOM gasped. Was Dr. Noid really pardoning him? Usually, loss of function of a body part was considered a sin amongst the lower-grade robots. TOM was sure he'd be sent to the scrap heap by now.

    "Your reports you've sent to me about your hunting really inspire me," Dr. Noid continued. "You seem to be dedicated to your cause. You make hunting seem emotional and matterful, whereas among the higher-grades, hunting is just... a sport."

    TOM was about to cry tears of joy. He could only utter, "T-thank you..."

    "I'll send you to the rehabilitation center for surgery tomorrow morning," Dr. Noid said. "Just a reminder... just because your arm's been rendered useless... doesn't mean that you are useless."

    TOM felt a sense of warmth grow inside him from Noid's words.

    "You are useful."