Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:13

Day 969 of  Cycle 3

[transcribed memory/thoughtstream generated by Ṁ̵̢̘̭̬̙̘̦̳͓̺͈̪̒̂ǫ̵̨̛̠̫̻̐̋̓͗͗͗̏̎͂̿͌̕t̴̜̪͇͕͚́̓͐h̴̯͍̼̦̯̝̜̝̤͂͋͆͌͗͝ę̸͉͖͕̜̤̘͙͎͚̈́̏͒̒̄̏̃̋͘̕͘͜ȓ̸̢̨͍͉̱̮̞͔̋̇ ̴̡̛̱̳̘̠͎̫̩̪̦̠̦̣̀͒͛͊̚͠G̷̰̹̝͆̈͜į̸̧̟͙̰͖̳̯̈́̒͜͜g̶͉̗̹̻̟̰̞̭̠͉͙̈́͊̌̈̈̓̐̒̕ạ̵̧̧̘͖͔̟̝̳̅̇̂̂̅̓̇͛̓͋̊̏̇̕t̵̮̉͒̋̄̑̇̌̀̅͑̋͋r̶̻̟͗̋̀̆̿̃̔̄͒̎̊̈́̚o̵̪̦͇̫̾̋̊̾̋͗͗̊͊̄͜͠͝ḡ̵̛̰͎̇̐͒͋̊̀͝ẗ̶̡̮̠͈̗̗̃͛̈̊̾ḩ̴͍̖͖̥͈̻̪̖̤̰̥̣̋͌̚ř̵̝̤̩͈͎̤͎̯̤͔̝̬̖̓̏͐̀̿̊̂̈͋̕͝͝ĭ̴̡̡͙̺̪͕̻̺̥̫̭̜̺̳̃̂͊̓́̅̈́̎̀̽̀̚ͅṃ̵̨͇̺̪̤̄͜ȧ̵͓̟͖̞̩̤͙̩̖̠̝̣̔ź̶̡͇͍̝̳͚̱͖̳͖̬͓̋̂͜ ̸̢̺͚̍̎̈́̂͛̂̐͐̊̕̚͜͝͝Ȉ̵̢̹̜̞͆̃͗̅̈́̋͒̅͝Í̶̡͓͓̰̥̤̗̱̀͛́͆̒͋̂͠͝I̴̟̞̪̯͍̟̿̂̐̌͑̎̅̋͐͆̍́]

​

Regardless of its irrelevance in space, humans are locked into the patterns dictated by their long-dead homeworld. They have hours which are designated as night and hours which are designated as day. All but one of the humans of the Mr. Astley slept during the night when not piloting or otherwise needed. The screeEEE-ah rested one third of their three-sphered brain at a time, for about 32 minutes ever four hours. They became rather sluggish and strange during those periods, at which point, the humans and a few others found it amusing to mess with them.  

The white-feathered creature slept erratically, whenever and wherever she felt like it, with a piece of fabric over her head. 

[I have learned her species is called the gcla’cuivortree—or at least, they’re called that by the humans, and sometimes even just gla'cui when said humans are feeling especially lazy. They call themselves by an intricate series of clucks and trills which are almost entirely beyond the poor primates’ vocal capabilities. Every once in a while the apes would try to pronounce it correctly. They invariably failed, but in new and spectacular ways every time. I found this increasingly hilarious as I began to develop a sense of humor. Shoooncla the gcla’cuivortree (Shosho for short) did not.] 

There were, it turned out—two pilots. But of course, there was a hierarchy there as well. Jack C was the dominant, primary pilot. The other was a sort of back-up, leftover pilot for when Jack C was resting or otherwise indisposed. (Due to the fact that humans have yet to embrace fully-living ships and some very complex drama between themselves and their own AI, they are not partial to allowing their ships to entirely fly themselves.)

The leftover pilot, Jack C's half-brother, was also named Jack. They called him Jack V, or just V, which he seemed to prefer. V’s hair was tightly coiled and somewhat resembled tentacles. He also possessed lighter patches of skin around his mouth and eyes and on his hands, a trait which the other humans lacked. 

Jack V was the one who congratulated me on being a man. 

In any case—the scene. It was what the humans considered night time, and I liked it because that was when they dimmed the lights. Rain sounds were playing on the ship-wide speakers. And, even though Jack C was piloting, and presumably V should have been sleeping, he was not. I queried him about this.

“Yeah, I avoid that as much as possible,” he said, of sleep, before pouring more liquid from his drinking canister into his mouth. It was full of stimulants and the phage-generated approximation of certain mammal excretions. We sat together in the mess hall, and I must admit, I was getting some enjoyment out of sitting in the way humans did. Though the tail did get in the way, at first. 

“Please, tell me more about the various functions of this ship,” I said, clasping my hands around my own cup of stimulants. In the time since I had begun modifying my body to consume foods and liquids, I had not done anything to make my physiology receptive to such substances. Not until this iteration.

For the first time, in a somewhat darkened corner of that space station bar, I had decided to take the plunge. I acquired bits of human DNA from the atmosphere—shed skin cells and such—and began the process of incorporating them into my physiology. It was helpful in acquiring the more human form Rin wished of me, of course, but also I wanted to experience chemicals similarly to how humans do, especially when it comes to sensations and effects of the mind. As this was more than a mere cosmetic change, it had taken its time to set in. 

But, shortly after siphoning my initial few sips of coffee, I got my first small inkling (delightful word) of what I had gotten myself into. And I will admit, I was terrified. 

“Well, ah,” V said, hesitating as my tentacles began to undulate at ever-increasing speeds. “We’re pretty typical freelance drift-trash, to be honest,” he said, eyeballs darting in their sockets as they observed my tentacles. “But you obviously know that, since we’re human and all.” He laughed, and then diverted his eyeballs to the dimmed, swirling colors of the faux stained-glass “panel” beside him. “Though we do have three Scions of Lutra aboard, which depending on who you ask, makes things either better or worse.” 

I drank the rest of my stimulants and vibrated harder. 

“This coffee is somehow both disgusting and delicious at once. The effect it has had on my body is both pleasing and unsettling.” 

V shifted slightly in his seat, eyeballs pointing briefly toward the exit.

“Oh. That’s…cool?” 

“No,” I informed him. “It is hot. Should I try it cool? Iced? I think I will.”

I rose from my seat to go generate an iced coffee. When I was finished, V was gone. I sat back down at the table to drink my icy human bean liquid. 

Shosho, who was sleeping under the table with a shirt over her head, awoke. 

“I think you scared him off,” she observed. Her species hosts a fascinating parasite which perceives their surroundings as they sleep, and inserts its own memories of the events into their minds as if they were the host species’ own. They do a great deal more than that—including adjusting and enhancing pheromones according to need and situation. Apparently many species are wary of interfacing with the gcla’cui without some manner of filtering mask or other defense, though according to most of the information available to me, they are disinclined towards the malicious use of their pheromones upon other sapients.

They do still use them to hunt, however. 

I thought about asking what she meant by saying I had scared V off, but I was more interested in the parasite. I’d looked it up earlier, while she was still asleep, but the information available was limited. 

“Does your parasite perhaps produce any eggs which I may acquire from you by purchase or trade?” I queried. 

“I’m doing very nicely, thank you,” she said, with a tone that I was beginning to recognize, with the help of Fools, as sarcasm. Did I understand what sarcasm was exactly, though? No. No, I did not. And neither did Fools. 

“Are you one of the Scions of Lutra?” I asked next. It seemed to make sense. 

She regarded me for a moment with her big black eyes, hopping up to perch in the chair across from me. 

“Yes,” she said, and then began to preen. 

“I am fascinated by your occupation,” I said. “Please, tell me what it is like to engage in ritualistic copulation for the purpose of spiritual advancement and credits.” 

She made no noises for a moment, instead tilting her head to point one of her shiny eyes at me. 

“I could show you, if you like.” 

“Would this act, perhaps, transfer your parasite or any of its offspring into my body?” 

Another brief silence. A blink. 

“No.”

“In that case, I shall decline,” I said, speaking in a polite tone. “But due to recent adjustments, I expect to develop sexual attraction very soon. So perhaps then?”

She chirped and resumed her preening. 

“I do look forward to my sexuality setting in,” I said, out loud. We were, after all, in the messing hall—forgive me, mess hall—and we were putting things into our faces. It was a time to talk. “I wonder if I will be attracted to anyone?” My tentacles writhed in caffeinated excitement. There are some humans who do not experience sexuality, so I was very careful in my acquisitions...doing my best to ensure that the new configuration would elicit the outcome I desired.

The idea of attraction was fascinating. 

I’ve been familiar with longing of an…I suppose you could say carnal…nature since the onset of my third cycle, of course. It is the drive to acquire the DNA of other species. But, there is a more primal longing there, too. One we have held onto from the old days. It is somewhat similar to human sexual desire, but unrelated in any way to attraction to any particular individual.

I stood up and circled the room repeatedly at great speed as I consumed the rest of my iced coffee, wondering to whom I would be attracted when the changes fully set in. But not out loud, this time, because the feathers around Shosho’s eyes had become pink, and that meant that she wanted me to stop speaking. 

That is when the ever-present scent of predator grew suddenly stronger.

Tursa was about to enter the mess hall. 

I stopped my circling at once, tentacles coming forward of their own accord. Her (despicable) species does sleep, but only for short periods at a time, and very lightly. It had been a few hours since last I'd perceived her awake, and apparently, that period had come to an end. 

My first instinct, of course, was to leave. 

But I could not…would not give the beast that satisfaction. 

With no little effort, I forced my tentacles down and back...doing my best to look casual as I siphoned the last of the coffee.