![]() You'd thought you were walking into woodland, but consider you may have been mistaken. Just a meager living, one you miss at the moment as you idly watch the glistening "rain" wash its way over small pale rocks in this sparse savannah. Finally, no cullers to tell you what to do. No imps, no ogres, no basilisks or other "no-thank-you's" which you stopped having a use for long ago, their resources trivial when you consider yourself to have made a rightful living quarters at long last. Even as your fingers become so disgustingly slick with Actual-Fucking-Brain-Juice that you have to give up your comprehensive progress report and actually bother to take in your surroundings. Stare at your phone, your eleven ( Ten? It may well be ten now, you consider, a shiver as you banish the thought) remaining followers in this post-apocalyptic wasteland will no doubt praise your perseverance. The terrain directly in your line of sight is vast, but you feel an incessant need to give your status updates to the group. And your sweater, and yourself, a pitter-patter of droplets from above, finally, rĪnd, by the game's logic, it's flammable too, stirring a flare-up of the fires roaring near the borderline of this islet over the horizon, at which point you decide that you can afford to burn all of your clothes after this if it allows you to sit in the dubious shelter of one of these brain-trees and wait out the storm. Cranial nerves serve as pale-pink branches on trees formed from the wet, undulating flesh forming the islands you stand upon as not to plummet into the infernal abyss below. Each sweltering, ragged breath is physical pain, and you are certain you've been burned from exposure within the first two minutes of your journey. The air carries the caramelized odor of constant decay, beyond the blood of your own ironically-clad planet and into the territory of viscera you are entirely certain that no soul should ever actually witness outside of a morgue. You knew that going in, of course, as did she, but the name of this planet seemed significantly more superficial before you had to smell it. You hadn't exactly thought about the consequences of reconciling, let alone explaining to her, what it is you really find.īrains. Neither do you, but you foolishly volunteered to find out. Selfish as he can be, you'd almost thought she meant more to him than this, leaving her high and dry in the metaphorical torrent of suspended ambivalence. His absence has started to concern your mutual friend (his datemate, somehow) to the point of anxious episodes, which you should have known he'd cause sooner or later. So how dare he? Drag you out here? ( #unsanitary, #b9dy h9rr9r, #w9uld it kill you t9 have a deep pers9nal quest that includes air c9nditi9ning?)Įxcept he hasn't actually dragged you out here at all. You are aware he must know that all twelve of you will be at a great disadvantage should any of his several, several deaths stick. Even if you find him irritating, even if his "prophecies" and grim predictions are clearly nonsensical and demoralizing, you must admit his abilities are valuable to the team. You haven't spoken in at least two perigees, and even then the last two sweeps have only included game-related correspondence. You may have, once, but the long nights of your friendship passed as you grew up on diverging paths, as his unwavering confidence in his abilities (outwardly you were privileged with the knowledge that his "natural psychic talent" came from practicing with his psi until odd hours of the morning in order to make his anxieties and excess energy recede until he could sleep) eroded at your patience, until his unrepentant criticism of your studies and etiquette (you are most certainly not a "TToTTal fuckiin bulgewrench hiigh off own ego iif you TThiink you're TThe only guy people are giiviin' 2hiiTT TTwo for b2 rea2on2," nor any variation thereof, thank you very much) became so great ( why does she have to like him so much can't she see he won't treat her well, not like you can, he can't even treat himself well) that you drifted apart. The four sweeps you've known him have felt like a neon-coated, caffeine-laced retro fever dream, and the stark absence of that unabashed presence, that sheer bravado from someone so contemptible is tangible. Not a soul has seen height nor hair of Mituna Captor for weeks, which is concerning considering that he's seldom let you forget about him before. Mostly, you ponder as you sink nearly shin-deep into slowly fermenting brain, you lament your audacious decision to exist. You are beginning to regret your life choices.
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