12
GreggHL
Engaging hilarity engine/air intake
- Location
- Daejeon, Republic of Korea
So the story goes that one week, way back when, Autochthon got really bored, wandered off into Elsewhere and built himself a massive facility where he could retreat if he suddenly realized he had gotten himself in actual danger. Sadly, physics being what it is in Elsewhere, the place is crooked, with bent walls, strange lights through the full wall-windows, and a tendency of things smelling like lavender.
It is, however, well appointed and quite safe. The floors are all at a slight angle but sturdy, the wood is freshly varnished, and the ceilings high enough to accommodate even is twenty meter-tall encounter bodies. However, the acoustics are a little off, so it does make him wince a bit and take a step back in his suit when the lovely young woman- who's fake mustache has fallen off in the confusion- screams at the top of her lungs and retreats against the far wall.
"Yes! Yes! No need to scream, the transit is over." The head of the giant opens with a burst of steam. Collapsing onto its shiny golden ass, the armor releases the sphere. It floats over, iris shifting open and shut, light playing over the wide-eyed face of the deity. "Before we begin, would you like something to drink? Or perhaps lie down?"
The back of the sphere opens up like a blooming flower. But instead of pollen and stems, eight skeletal golden arms come out, each ending in a different appendage or manipulator. Some of which glow. "Now, now are you unhurt?" The iris shifts and the sphere tilts. "Because you seem a little put out-"
Her shrieking comes to an abrupt end. Not because she has stopped screaming, but because her voice has given out. One appendage, a glowing bulb, wanders close to he collar where her fake mustache had fallen. An alarmed warble and he pulls it back. The wax construct, partially melted, snaps back and reforms on her lip.
"Sorry sorry," he says. The wall behind the sphere shifts and folds down. A blast of heat hits them both, the sphere turning a deeper, richer gold and the wax melting down her lip. The furnace behind Autochthon glows blue, then shifts down into the floor and is replaced by a series of overflowing clay jars.
Autochthon turns. The iris shifts wide. "My that's a lot of prayer. Let me get you something to drink." The sphere ambles over to the jars, humming to himself.
It hovers in front of the jars. The floor beneath the sphere opens, and another encounter suit- half the size of the one that abducted her, barely more than two meters tall, rises up. The sphere slides into an opening in the back, and large golden hands gathering up shimmering liquid. "Ah! Yes! Jadeborn. Good, good, they're still around need to do something about them..."
Golden lightning and crystal fire plays over a sphere of shimmering liquid hovering between his hands. It expands out, first into a large, antique plate. Upon it forms cups and a kettle. A stream of liquid rises from one of the jars on the floor and becomes rich brown tea before dripping into the cups and then filling the kettle.
"Please don't kill me," the god says, her voice faintly higher than a whisper.
The tray, cups, and kettle drop to the floor. The golden giant almost topples over from spinning so fast. He stammers for a long moment, then finally forms a coherent, "What?"
"Please don't kill me," she repeats, voice a strained squeak, her hands gripping her arms, "I don't want to die. I don't want to be turned into starmetal." Shoulders shake, eyes still locked on Autochthon, even as he gestures and the tray, cups and all rise into the air next to him. "I don't want to die," she repeats, stammering out words, "I don't want to die. I really, really don't want to die."
The tray hovers in front of her. The golden man tilts his head. Some dim thoughts, recognition, spark through the mind of the Maker. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Noedumari," she says, "God of Disguises Badly Put Together." She doesn't touch the tray, hands still locked around her arms. Wax dribbles down her chin, joined by two streams of clear water that begin to come from her eyes.
The facet eyes shift and blink. "Ah. Noedumari, do you know who I am, and why I brought you here?" It registers in the back of his mind. Old memories he had, by and large, forgotten. Sights and sounds of a time eons ago, when he was a universe into himself.
She nods, quickly. She wipes a red sleeve over her face, staining it with wax and tears and snot. Her hands come up to the collar of her tunic, her eyes meeting the expressionless metal face of the Maker. "I, uh," she chokes, "I'll do anything you ask, honest. Just, just." She begins working a clasp on the collar, pulling at it. Breaking it. "I just don't want to die. I just don't want to die."
She repeats it, over and over again, and he tilts his head. Confusion plays over his thoughts, watching her trying to undo her top. Shaking hands fail to even work the first two clasps before she gives up, tears and wax and raw, naked terror running down her face. "s'not fair," she gurgles, "I never did anything!" Her shoulders shake and her chest heaves. "I don't w'na die. I don't w'na die. I don't w'na die."
Head down, eyes closed, back pressed against the wall, she reacts only with harder and harder flinching from each step he takes closer to her. He glances at her face, tear streaked and nose running, the wax thing that must be some sort of badge of office a smudge over the lower half of her face. He looks down and sees the puddle dripping from the hem of her dress.
Actual, full recognition plays over his mind and at that moment, Autochthon, the Great Maker, realizes. It has taken over a billion years, endless eons of continued existence. Observations of others, endless cycles of life, death, everything in between. Self-surgery, self-improvement, to be able to look outside of his purview.
And for a brief moment, he does ask himself the question of what can I make to fix this problem? But then, even though it feels like it physically hurts him, he pushes down the question. He instead, asks himself a different question. A question that he has seen those he travels with ask, those he values as more than tools and vectors and components of plans ask.
What would Commander Shepard do in this situation?
Two gold hands, each one large enough that they could crush this girl's head with minimum effort, reach out and grip her shoulders. She starts, choked sounds coming from her mouth, and he gently eases her off the wall and against himself. Arms wrap around her shoulders, and he says nothing, silent and confused against the sounds of her miserable sobs and the repeated mantra of how she doesn't want to die.
After a while, after a time which his internal chronometer clocks at twenty four minutes, she stops. He glances down to make sure that, yes, she is still awake, she hasn't collapsed or fainted. But at very least she isn't shaking. Easing her off of him, he holds her at arms length. She does not look up, does not say anything.
"Right. Sorry for the scare. I just needed you to help me work through exactly what is happening here." He turns, a doorway appearing on a wall next to them. "Let's get you comfortable, shall we? And perhaps cleaned up, you are a guest after all and" He clears his throat. "Right! Everyone! We have a guest! Let's make things tidy!"
There are sounds of cheers and skittering legs, and he gently leads her out of the large, warped room.
It is, however, well appointed and quite safe. The floors are all at a slight angle but sturdy, the wood is freshly varnished, and the ceilings high enough to accommodate even is twenty meter-tall encounter bodies. However, the acoustics are a little off, so it does make him wince a bit and take a step back in his suit when the lovely young woman- who's fake mustache has fallen off in the confusion- screams at the top of her lungs and retreats against the far wall.
"Yes! Yes! No need to scream, the transit is over." The head of the giant opens with a burst of steam. Collapsing onto its shiny golden ass, the armor releases the sphere. It floats over, iris shifting open and shut, light playing over the wide-eyed face of the deity. "Before we begin, would you like something to drink? Or perhaps lie down?"
The back of the sphere opens up like a blooming flower. But instead of pollen and stems, eight skeletal golden arms come out, each ending in a different appendage or manipulator. Some of which glow. "Now, now are you unhurt?" The iris shifts and the sphere tilts. "Because you seem a little put out-"
Her shrieking comes to an abrupt end. Not because she has stopped screaming, but because her voice has given out. One appendage, a glowing bulb, wanders close to he collar where her fake mustache had fallen. An alarmed warble and he pulls it back. The wax construct, partially melted, snaps back and reforms on her lip.
"Sorry sorry," he says. The wall behind the sphere shifts and folds down. A blast of heat hits them both, the sphere turning a deeper, richer gold and the wax melting down her lip. The furnace behind Autochthon glows blue, then shifts down into the floor and is replaced by a series of overflowing clay jars.
Autochthon turns. The iris shifts wide. "My that's a lot of prayer. Let me get you something to drink." The sphere ambles over to the jars, humming to himself.
It hovers in front of the jars. The floor beneath the sphere opens, and another encounter suit- half the size of the one that abducted her, barely more than two meters tall, rises up. The sphere slides into an opening in the back, and large golden hands gathering up shimmering liquid. "Ah! Yes! Jadeborn. Good, good, they're still around need to do something about them..."
Golden lightning and crystal fire plays over a sphere of shimmering liquid hovering between his hands. It expands out, first into a large, antique plate. Upon it forms cups and a kettle. A stream of liquid rises from one of the jars on the floor and becomes rich brown tea before dripping into the cups and then filling the kettle.
"Please don't kill me," the god says, her voice faintly higher than a whisper.
The tray, cups, and kettle drop to the floor. The golden giant almost topples over from spinning so fast. He stammers for a long moment, then finally forms a coherent, "What?"
"Please don't kill me," she repeats, voice a strained squeak, her hands gripping her arms, "I don't want to die. I don't want to be turned into starmetal." Shoulders shake, eyes still locked on Autochthon, even as he gestures and the tray, cups and all rise into the air next to him. "I don't want to die," she repeats, stammering out words, "I don't want to die. I really, really don't want to die."
The tray hovers in front of her. The golden man tilts his head. Some dim thoughts, recognition, spark through the mind of the Maker. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Noedumari," she says, "God of Disguises Badly Put Together." She doesn't touch the tray, hands still locked around her arms. Wax dribbles down her chin, joined by two streams of clear water that begin to come from her eyes.
The facet eyes shift and blink. "Ah. Noedumari, do you know who I am, and why I brought you here?" It registers in the back of his mind. Old memories he had, by and large, forgotten. Sights and sounds of a time eons ago, when he was a universe into himself.
She nods, quickly. She wipes a red sleeve over her face, staining it with wax and tears and snot. Her hands come up to the collar of her tunic, her eyes meeting the expressionless metal face of the Maker. "I, uh," she chokes, "I'll do anything you ask, honest. Just, just." She begins working a clasp on the collar, pulling at it. Breaking it. "I just don't want to die. I just don't want to die."
She repeats it, over and over again, and he tilts his head. Confusion plays over his thoughts, watching her trying to undo her top. Shaking hands fail to even work the first two clasps before she gives up, tears and wax and raw, naked terror running down her face. "s'not fair," she gurgles, "I never did anything!" Her shoulders shake and her chest heaves. "I don't w'na die. I don't w'na die. I don't w'na die."
Head down, eyes closed, back pressed against the wall, she reacts only with harder and harder flinching from each step he takes closer to her. He glances at her face, tear streaked and nose running, the wax thing that must be some sort of badge of office a smudge over the lower half of her face. He looks down and sees the puddle dripping from the hem of her dress.
Actual, full recognition plays over his mind and at that moment, Autochthon, the Great Maker, realizes. It has taken over a billion years, endless eons of continued existence. Observations of others, endless cycles of life, death, everything in between. Self-surgery, self-improvement, to be able to look outside of his purview.
And for a brief moment, he does ask himself the question of what can I make to fix this problem? But then, even though it feels like it physically hurts him, he pushes down the question. He instead, asks himself a different question. A question that he has seen those he travels with ask, those he values as more than tools and vectors and components of plans ask.
What would Commander Shepard do in this situation?
Two gold hands, each one large enough that they could crush this girl's head with minimum effort, reach out and grip her shoulders. She starts, choked sounds coming from her mouth, and he gently eases her off the wall and against himself. Arms wrap around her shoulders, and he says nothing, silent and confused against the sounds of her miserable sobs and the repeated mantra of how she doesn't want to die.
After a while, after a time which his internal chronometer clocks at twenty four minutes, she stops. He glances down to make sure that, yes, she is still awake, she hasn't collapsed or fainted. But at very least she isn't shaking. Easing her off of him, he holds her at arms length. She does not look up, does not say anything.
"Right. Sorry for the scare. I just needed you to help me work through exactly what is happening here." He turns, a doorway appearing on a wall next to them. "Let's get you comfortable, shall we? And perhaps cleaned up, you are a guest after all and" He clears his throat. "Right! Everyone! We have a guest! Let's make things tidy!"
There are sounds of cheers and skittering legs, and he gently leads her out of the large, warped room.
That's it. He is going to die!" Kal should beware of assassination attempts.
