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] [cont'd]

​

Tursa’s appointments did not become any less fascinating with repetition. She attended next to a screeEEE-ah who, upon the destruction of their beloved ship, had lost the desire to exist. The species—when mating with actual members of its own kind—pierce one another with boney, spermatovum-delivering barbs. I imagine it felt quite natural for them when Tursa’s own barbs drove home…though they delivered inebriating poisons rather than genetic material.  

After that came a shepnap which had reached the end of its third and final life-cycle. I imagine these beings could artificially extend their lives, if they chose, but they generally do not. They are amphibious and spiritual beasts somewhat resembling the extinct Earthen axolotl [creatures of which Lore is deeply fond], and they have no word for death. Instead, they call it “returning to the waters,” and when the time comes, they delight in it. The shepnap took the longest, and his was a rather more sensual encounter than the others, at least in the more obvious ways. There was rope involved, among other paraphernalia I will not detail here. 

It is during this session which I began to experience an emotion that I could not at the time identify. That, as I recount this to you, I am loathe to admit to.

I envied the shepnap. Not the dying part, but all that which lead up to it. And I despised myself for it, even before I knew what it was I’d been experiencing.

But I digress. I digress quite often.

Although each of these appointments was different in its own way, they all began with a check, at first, to be sure the appropriate amount of credits had been transferred. And they all ended the same, too. With a cracked skull, or a split membrane. A brain or central nerve-cluster consumed. 

As we left the resplendent home of the shepnap, we took a turn that led us downward, toward the lower levels and outer edges of the city. I began to recognize by our surroundings that we had entered a region of Thoriv which was home to some of its many poor people. Strange, that such an apparently prosperous place should even have poor people, but such is the way of things in this region of the galaxy. 

I was surprised to be there, as from what I could perceive, Tursa’s previous customers had all paid her a great deal for her services. But before I could formulate an adequate query, we had entered…and I chose to wait and see if the situation would explain itself in the happening. 

The apartment she led me to was small. So small that I had to wait in the public corridor outside of it for them to have privacy. The being inside was deeply unwell. A koiruu, she should have been sleek and black, shining and swift. Instead her movements were pained and slow, her scales flaked and gray, and one fork of her tail had broken off. I surmised this was one of those rare diseases for which none had found a cure, or that perhaps she did not want one. This time, there was no credits-check. Just nearly an hour of the two spending time together, and then…the culmination. Tursa emerged. 

“I don’t understand,” I informed her. “She did not pay.” 

“She paid what she could,” said Tursa. “In flesh. In nourishment.” 

We spent some three more hours between that and a neighboring district, servicing clients who did not pay in the same way the Scion’s wealthier ones had. The sky had become dark by then, it was a true night. At this point, we made for the heart of the city, a place called downtown. 

“How many more clients do you intend to service?” I queried. “Captain Rin expects us back within a few hours. Shosho has already returned.”

We both at this point possessed quaintly primitive external communication devices that the humans called phones, a name which was more a nostalgic reference to an even older relic than a description of its modern successor. It is with this device that I had been keeping in touch with the Mr. Astley.

“None,” said Tursa, yawning. I wondered if this was something which came naturally to her species now, or whether they’d adopted it to endear themselves to other mammaloids “But the humans will be agitated when we get back, because we were able to leave the ship and they weren’t. So we need to get souvenirs.”

“Soooo-va-neers?” I had not heard that word. I queried Fools, and came up blank.   

“Yes, souvenirs,” said Tursa, with a sigh—like a human explaining something very simple to its child. “Pleasing items acquired in the place to which the humans were unable to go.” 

“And this appeases them?” It grated on me that Tursa knew something of humanity which I did not, but not so much that I wouldn’t press to learn more. 

“Somewhat,” she replied.  

Downtown Thoriv was rather glamorous at night (I have been waiting for an opportunity to use that word), particularly considering their fondness for animated statues of the city’s many sacred beasts. These were lit from within, adding their own glow to that of the streetlights, domicile windows and shop displays. Also, they had numerous levitating gardens—both miniature and large—in which trees and other plant and fungal life grew. I found this aesthetic. A symptom of my human genetic additions, no doubt. 

The interiors of the shops, however, were frequently too bright and generally overwhelming, and Tursa and I argued much over which souvenirs were best. Ultimately, we each purchased our own choices. I supposed this could only serve to increase their desired effect, even if the predator’s selections had neither pleasing aesthetic nor adequate utility. My offerings would make up for that. 

Most of the shops had closed and darkened, and we were on our way back to the Mr. Astley, when I perceived a shift in our surroundings. There were not many people on the street with us, but some of those that were seemed suddenly wary, increasing their speed to hurry away. Others had begun to gather together—two groups of three beings, coalescing quickly. A group to one end of the street, and a group to the other. Blocking us in. One of them had their eyes pointed at Tursa and me, and I recognized him from earlier in that day.

He was human, and his fingers were at work over a biodisplay panel on his forearm, eyes pointing up to the structures around us. I followed his gaze, noting where it lingered. Surveillance cameras. He was, almost undoubtedly, tampering with them.  

{Tursa, this group of beings is about to attack us,} I advised. 

{You don’t say,} she replied. 

{I just did!}

{it’s a hu—nevermind. Are you ready?}

{Of course.}

The smallest one made the first move. He was a thiroptatrix—bipedal, armless, and covered in black and vividly-yellow scale bumps—and I perceived the priming of the darts embedded in his cheeks before he spread his jaws to launch them. My tentacles are particularly difficult to pierce. And so I swept one of them forward to dash the darts sideways. In aiming for me first, the thiroptatrix had clearly surmised I was the greater threat. I could not help but feel some pride at this. 

Behind me and to the side, Tursa growled…whips writhing fiercely in the air before her.

It was almost too easy to perceive their bodily defenses and weapons. After all, they had been hidden by creatures with limited perceptual abilities, with equally limited creatures in mind.

The largest of the beings—an especially furry eshtsan—along with the arm-panel human, joined the thiroptatrix in its assault on me. The remaining three turned their attentions on Tursa. 

I wrapped one of my tentacles around the eshtsan‘s upper body and pinned their top two arms in place before they could unleash their hidden bone-blades. Then I whipped them down the street, where they collided with the stone siding of a levitating garden before collapsing to the panelwalk below, one of their lumpy horns cracked and hanging on its stump. Another tentacle I curled about the throat of the thiroptatrix, squeezing his esophagus before he could cough up another set of darts. Then I tossed him away, too. 

The human—who’d kept his distance thus far—had a plasma-spitter grown into one arm, its temperature nearly primed. I believe he underestimated the reach and elasticity of my tentacles.

Darting forward somewhat with my main body, I snatched the arm in a tentacle and bent it backward, pinching the plasma valve. The bones of the upper arm cracked most satisfactorily, though with rather more effort than it should have taken…and while the human attempted to disengage the tentacle with his other hand, he made no sounds with his mouth—despite the noisy nature of primates and the pain this should have caused him. 

I noticed then that something was off, and strained my many senses, dragging him nearer to perceive him more closely.

There was a quality about him that was almost…uncanny valley. And his eyes, though they blazed at me in fury, did not blink. 

But he smelled human, had the temperature, organs, bones, and approximate electromagnetic signature-type of a human. 

Though I was baffled, I could not think on it much just then. 

I dispatched yet more of my tentacles, extending them sideways in defense of Tursa—who’d had the shocking good sense to position herself closer to me. 

Yanking him down by the neck, I bashed the uncanny human’s head against a panel, not quite as hard as I could…but close. By the sound it made as it impacted the ground, however, it seemed I had fractured his skull. Or what was masquerading for it.

With him handled—for the time, at least—and the other two seemingly incapacitated, I opened my core awareness back up to the whole of my neural system. Once my intent had been established, I had left the tentacles assisting Tursa—with their individual pseudo-brains—to act out my will of their own accord. By the time I returned my attention to them, either they or Tursa had rendered another attacker unconscious. Well, I believe she was unconscious, in any case. It was difficult to tell between that and dead, with some species. Another still struggled, hissing and spitting, in my coils. The last had fled. 

One of my tentacles had been injured in the process, and as it fully reintegrated into my awareness, I began to feel…pain. I knew at once that was what it must be, though I’d never experienced it before. It was unsettling, and a little…invigorating. And it made me… angry.

The spitter, a t’ksid, stilled as he realized he had gained my full attention. His carapace shriveled, his milky eyes went gray, and he slumped in my grip. No doubt he had another two or three bodies out there, somewhere, and could sprout another, given a little time.

I was disappointed. I had been hoping to question him. In my frustration, I flung his corpse into a wall.

Tursa was watching me with an intensity that was palpable. I met her gaze.

Her dark but very shiny eyes studied mine. [Yes, I am using these phrases in a correct manner. Yes, I know they are strange.] She blinked, very slowly. 

{Come,} she said. {Let’s return to the ship. Quickly.}

{I wish to examine this human,} I argued. {There is something not—}

{No. We must go. Now.}

With a great deal of reluctance, I complied. 

​