trans_9 | (no subject)

Pop. Pop pop pop. Poppuhpoppoppop. KASCHUNKhiiiiiiiissssss.

There was condensation and mist spraying out from cracks in oblong glowing things that were clustered along the floors and walls of the huge, ancient-looking caverns.

For now, the ones that were cracking were the closest to the floor, but perhaps later, the figures sliding out of the pods would be sliding out onto the slimy walkways and platforms above.

Pop. Poppop. KASCHUNKhiiiiiissss.

There was light, and unconscious minds breaking through the top of the briny, harsh waters of consciousness, as their bodies did similarly and broke free from the pods, sliding to the floor, shivering in pools of slime.

Once the temporary blindness that some of them had passed, and once they were free of their sleepy stupors: somebody had some splainin' to do.

But there would be no explanations, as the only thing that could explain was only watching, silently, almost as a mother would look at their child right after it was born.

Pop. KASCHUNKhissss.

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Mr. Wednesday isn't really the sort to panic. That doesn't mean this isn't all tremendously disconcerting.

A long, painful groan escapes him - metaphysical as much as anything else. He straightens, ignoring the wound to his dignity. He's an old man, not that he quite measures age the same as anyone else, and not as fit as he once was, and his body reflects that.

There's the empty eye socket, too.

||Do you require assistance?||

The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and yet all around at the same time.

His face slackens, and then tenses.

"No," Wednesday hisses, looking about himself with his good eye. A hand goes up to his face, tracing over its contours. It slides down to his throat, tightening, and takes in a hissing breath before releasing himself.

"Where is my eye?" It's more of a demand than a proper question.

||In the Weapons and Possessions Lockers.||

"And where are those?"

He starts walking. It may be the wrong direction, but anywhere is better than nowhere.

A line of glowing pustules near his feet would lead off into the distance, heading in the other direction.

||This way. Would you like clothing before I direct you there?||

That way, then. He turns.

"Yes." His tone isn't hateful, but it's certainly not friendly.

He's led, as several others had been, through the upwards-winding caverns to a tall circular structure stretching from floor to ceiling, and eventually to a door on the structure that led to a room filled with vines hanging from the ceiling.

The process of being clothed by those strange vines only makes him unhappier, though he doesn't struggle against it much.

His eye. That's what's on his mind right now. If the line remains, he continues to follow it to the storage area (http://community.livejournal.com/trans_9/1608.html).