Podpop

[cityship]

[Instructions: Post your character with one post establishing them as being podpopped. Tag each other in groups of 2's, 3's, and 4's, to get some interaction to start with. If a thread doesn't already have 2 or 3 people tagged in, tag it with your character's podpop popping near the other people, rather than making a new subthread. If you would like to play out them talking to the AI, please send an email to the mods making the request--we do this only by request. Then move onto the big Newbie Meeting. Once your character has gotten the rundown from the old crew, you may start posting entrance posts and freely tagging.]


||Pod Release Protocols Initating|| Stacy's familiar voice sounds out to all the podmates through the ship.

In the Pod Caverns, there are the sounds of: Pop. Pop pop pop. Poppuhpoppoppop. KASCHUNKhiiiiiiiissssss.

There is condensation and mist spraying out from cracks in the pods, as the people inside slide out onto the floors, covered in slime.

--



There was nothing. You were going about your normal life, then there was a bright light, and then? Nothing.

Then the world lurches.

The chamber here is humid.

Actually, "chamber" isn't quite accurate. You're in a cavern, half-lit by an eerie greenish light, going on and on as far as the eye can see. The light is coming from what can only be described as pods, glistening, round greenish-yellow things, glowing with a pale inner light, outlining human -- and not quite human -- forms. Each is rooted to the floor, to the walls, with something black, twisted, and unidentifiable.

They line the walls of the cavern, go up in maddeningly high columns, curling and corkscrewing up into the darkness, until the light from them is like that of the stars, glowing pale and mournful in clusters in the darkness above. Twisted walkways and stairs crisscross, traverse the platforms in front of the pods, wending their way back and forth, up and down through the chamber.

You just came from one of those pods, broke free like a butterfly from a (slimy, nasty) chrysalis.

Now you stand alone but not quite alone, naked, not knowing how you got there, who took you, or why you were taken.

As your body heats up again, you realize the air is warm -- just a few degrees too warm to be comfortable -- and muggy; it smells acrid and organic, like freshly spilt blood and sweat. Your mouth tastes of salt.

The floors are pulsing under your feet, throbbing...

Wherever you are, this entire place...is alive.

Oh, and also you're naked and covered in alien snot.

When you call out, ask where you are, a voice speaks to you, in your head. She tells you:

||You are here.||


When you ask who she is, she tells you that her name is STA'C K'LTRRB'TXFT, but that you may call her Stacy. When she tells you who she is, there is a gush of emotion, love, maternal warmth. You are on a ship. She is that ship. Her name is Stacy and she loves you. Her voice is warm and motherly, even if these messages sound almost automated.

Glowing phosphorescent lights appear in pustules along the floor. They lead you up a massive spiraling walkway that gives you a view of what are possibly millions in stasis. At the top is a room with moving vines that clean you and clothe you in a plant-like body-suit--soft, but durable. After that, the lights lead you to a great cavernous room with a clear floor that lets you see all the holes and tunnels in the walls of it. When you reach the center, the last thing she tells you before whisking you away to gather your belongings and meet the rest of the crew is this reassuring thought:

||You have been Chosen to accomplish a Great Purpose. You have been Chosen to help fight the Ohm, a race of insectoid beings that are the destroyers of worlds.||

||You have been Chosen as champions of life, as protectors of the worlds and peoples that are left. The others are waiting for you. They will explain everything.||

Comments

[on_your_nerves]

Pants were, in Sherlock's opinion, not really worth dying for, so he didn't like that John stepped forward and was already reaching out to grab his shoulder when the vines shot out and grabbed him.

"John!"

If there was any chance at all of Sherlock not getting dragged in, it was dashed by the fact that he rushed forward, tugging at the vines, trying to get John free. For all they knew, it was some sort of carniverous plant...thing, given how dangerously unpredictable this place was.

That meant he was swept up in the vines, too.

[nerves_of_steel]

"Sherlock!"

Just because they were (possibly?) dead didn't mean that John wanted Sherlock to come jumping into whatever this was with him. He lashed out with a foot to try and kick Sherlock back out of range of the vines.

Several dizzying moments later, John found himself back on his feet, fully clothed in a soft and bizarre jumpsuit. With a pulse.

"...Yes, definitely a different definition of 'clothing'."

[on_your_nerves]

John came very close to kicking Sherlock in the face, but Sherlock was thoroughly caught and like John, cleaned up, clothed, and deposited on his feet, wearing...something.

Something throbby.

For someone like Sherlock, who did not much like anything or anyone in his personal space that often, the feeling that his clothes were flesh-like and throbbing around him was very unpleasant.

"It's certainly not Spencer Hart," he remarked. "Though I suppose we should simply be grateful we're not currently being digested by something."

[nerves_of_steel]

John plucked at his jumpsuit, equally as fascinated as he was repulsed by the pulsing. It was a bit like living with Sherlock.

"If we were going to be digested, we'd probably have been eaten when we were unconscious in those pods," he reiterated. "Letting us wander around only to eat us then would be incredibly inefficient."

[on_your_nerves]

"Having us use our own legs to move directly from the equivalent of the fridge to its mouth would take less energy on its part than the thing moving us itself."

He was being cautious for once. (For now.) John should have been celebrating that he wasn't doing things like climbing down strange holes just to see what was down them for once or prodding tentacles.

[nerves_of_steel]

"Unless it was designed specifically to eat sentient beings that like to wear clothes, it'd be inefficient," John clarified, rolling his left shoulder as a strange tickle traveled across the scarring there. "Still, now that we're dressed, let's get out of here, shall we?"

Amazing how a sudden rush of adrenalin made the situation so much more bearable.

[on_your_nerves]

Argue or not argue? Argue or not argue? Sherlock opened his mouth and then decided not to ruin John's improved mood.

"Yes. Of course."

Clearly, he was a pod person or alien doppleganger, to be this agreeable. Clearly.

[nerves_of_steel]

Quite clearly. John eyed him as the two of them moved out of the clothing room, then glanced down at the lights on the floor.

"Huh. Looks like they're leading somewhere else now." Another searching look at Sherlock. "Do you have an opinion on this, or are you just going to agree with mine?"

[on_your_nerves]

"It's bothering you. That I'm acting so agreeable."

Statement of fact. Not a question.

[nerves_of_steel]

"A bit, yeah," John said, raising his eyebrows. He didn't want to point out, out loud, that the last time Sherlock had behaved like this had been Baskerville. "A little uncharacteristic for you. Not exactly the most reassuring when we're in some weird sci-fi flesh caves."

[on_your_nerves]

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as they walked, following the lights.

When he finally spoke up again, he said, "The reason I'm doing it, John, is because as of right now, you don't believe this is real, or that we're both alive--at least not entirely. You're a soldier, you're usually somewhat cautious unless someone is directly in danger--you wouldn't have walked into those vines the way you did under normal circumstances. That means you're still not entirely convinced."

He wasn't sure how to articulate the next part, but tried to soldier on through it.

"A moment is going to come when you realize you're not dreaming this and that neither of us are dead, and that's the moment you're going to be utterly furious with me."

And probably punch him in the face.

"And quite frankly, I am absolutely terrified our friendship isn't going to survive it. I'm hoping that if you have this to look back on and understand that I'm trying to be sincere that it will help mitigate your anger with me."

He was hoping that John would understand he really was sorry. That this time he wasn't faking and trying to slip something in John's drinks.

[nerves_of_steel]

John stopped and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. Well, that wiped away the last of the adrenaline-based calm he'd found for himself.

"No, I don't fully believe it," he said. "I don't care much for the idea of being dead, but it makes much more sense than having been mysteriously acquired by something large enough to hold countries inside of its meaty body. It's hard to imagine a situation where that might be the more accurate answer.

"And," he added, moving forward again to brush past Sherlock, "if you're correct about this place, then you are very correct about you're impression because we're friends. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if you're not Sherlock at all, but some rubbish psychopomp wearing his face instead. That's the most unsettling.

[on_your_nerves]

Reassuring. That he'd be that angry because they were friends. It didn't do more than make the terror abate only slightly, but that was better than not having any relief at all from the fear that their friendship would be damaged.

"Psychopomps are usually spirits or angels and such, aren't they? I'm fairly certain that if angels existed, there's only one that would wear my face, and it's one of the fallen varieties," he jibed.

He wasn't actually Satan, John. It was a joke. He was just hoping that being more like his usual snarky self would make John more comfortable.

[nerves_of_steel]

" 'Flatmates with Satan'," John said breezily. "I could put it on my C.V., or sell it as a title for a made-for-television movie."

Yes, that was much better, actually. Funny how that worked. John followed the lights -- albeit more cautiously that he had explored the clothing room, if only for Sherlock's sake.