[spoiler]<quote source="/post/2709/thread" author="@kat" timestamp="1417294788][sub][b]<o1. DSP blurb>
Phylo Za'an didn't belong outside of the Garden. If she were any other Roth Khaanian, none of what was going on would be possible. Maybe that's where the story really begins. The why, rather than the how.
Perched on the ledge of the precipice, eager eyes found the movements of the hive. It was a collective effort, organic lifeforms fused into the greater mechanism, with toiling hours driving their stamina to the limits. All 1.7 million individuals grafted into the system were workers, and their thoughts were that of the whole. Like a giant bee hive, they were productive in their craft, dependent on the group, and fiercely protective of the matron mother, who rested in the middle as an oblong centerpiece. All of this existed in a massive hole in the ground, that shined so brightly, it could be seen from space. The pods, the workers, and eventually, Phylo Za'an.
Only, as she was learning, there was no place for her in the Garden.
"-And if it were up to us, you would work as they do below - but it is not." Her guide was a broad man with glass-like shards protruding from his head to form something similar to a crown. "There is no room in this Garden. There is no room in any Garden. There simply is not room."
"But what of me?" Phylo asked with luminescent gaze shooting up from the display to her Guide. "If there is no room, where do I go?"
"The same place all seeds must go." The Guide directed a massive hand skyward. "Far, far away from the Mother."
<o2. DSP blurb>[/b]
The stars were long dead by the time their Roth Khaanian transit vessel coasted free through this expanse of charted space. Phylo Za'an felt equally dead as she watched the window stoically, her posture the same as when she had taken her seat 17 hours prior. Every muscle in that jet colored, crystalline fragment laced figure strained - fatigued - but she refused to maneuver from pain inducing statuesque bearings. Some would see the torture as a personal aim at therapeutic recovery in lieu of her recent dismissal, though most of the other passengers were oblivious to her plight. Their own attention was set on the announcements, the arrivals times, and the eventual landing. Their destination was one she had never visited, though in most regards, already despised. Envy was a tolerable feeling to harbor when alone, but when surrounded by the faces of those more privileged than one's self, it easily took root.
All seemed destined for their plans. All except Phylo Za'an.
Arrival was smooth. A slide into docking, met with the side mechanisms on the port walls of the space station jet bridge reaching their metal fingers around fitted extended locks. The click alerted the woman before the others did, though their movements ensured she was able to follow suit. Slowly, very slowly, Phylo Za'an rose and joined the line of her fellow Roth Khaanian's towards the exits, where smiling faces of their flight attendants bid them fond farewells. Many of her fellow journeymen seemed far keener to disembark from the shuttle, but Phylo Za'an reached the exit and halted, sidling side to side as those stuck behind her gave questionable looks. It was the first time she had been this far from the Mother. This far from those she knew, she loved, and fear resided in the unknown.
Of all the quiet she had savored over all those hours seated, it had done nothing to numb bitter biting of her detachment; of her release from the home she wanted nothing more than to be a part of. To be cast away, thrown out with the rest of the useless components, it stung. An injury she couldn't begin to heal in the time she was given. The feeling reflected in how she spoke, asking the nearest attendant, "Have you been here?"
"In the station? Of course."
"Is it like home?" Phylo Za'an looked grim with the question.
At first, a response seemed immediate. A simple task in theory, but the other woman cut herself off quickly in favor of silence. The two figures were left staring at one another. Their intricate sets of gleaming jewels reflected from where they were embedded in their flesh as a signature to the race they both were unmistakably connected to, even if they weren't physically attached to the collective. The garden rejected them and neither knew the other's story, but their castration was mutual. A palpable sadness, it was almost bittersweet.
Finally the stewardess sighed and shook her head. "There is no home for you here. You will never know home or the Garden as you knew it. Some take to this better life better than others, but our kind... Is not welcome in all places. You will know this while staying here."
Phylo Za'an didn't acknowledge the response, luminous hues glazing over as her figure abruptly lurched away as an effort towards disembarking from the ship. Down a narrow ramp and through dim corridor she went, bouncing against the grip track while wrestling the terror that accompanied her journey like an offensive odor. Fed into a swarm of alien bodies, a gasp stole away from her hoarse throat - the lights above suddenly blinding and offensive to every sense she had left. Hand outstretched, digits groped over the neighboring placement map, the digital display warm against her skin.
(tbc but won't scrap)
[/sub][/spoiler]
Phylo Za'an didn't belong outside of the Garden. If she were any other Roth Khaanian, none of what was going on would be possible. Maybe that's where the story really begins. The why, rather than the how.
Perched on the ledge of the precipice, eager eyes found the movements of the hive. It was a collective effort, organic lifeforms fused into the greater mechanism, with toiling hours driving their stamina to the limits. All 1.7 million individuals grafted into the system were workers, and their thoughts were that of the whole. Like a giant bee hive, they were productive in their craft, dependent on the group, and fiercely protective of the matron mother, who rested in the middle as an oblong centerpiece. All of this existed in a massive hole in the ground, that shined so brightly, it could be seen from space. The pods, the workers, and eventually, Phylo Za'an.
Only, as she was learning, there was no place for her in the Garden.
"-And if it were up to us, you would work as they do below - but it is not." Her guide was a broad man with glass-like shards protruding from his head to form something similar to a crown. "There is no room in this Garden. There is no room in any Garden. There simply is not room."
"But what of me?" Phylo asked with luminescent gaze shooting up from the display to her Guide. "If there is no room, where do I go?"
"The same place all seeds must go." The Guide directed a massive hand skyward. "Far, far away from the Mother."
---
[/quote]<o2. DSP blurb>[/b]
The stars were long dead by the time their Roth Khaanian transit vessel coasted free through this expanse of charted space. Phylo Za'an felt equally dead as she watched the window stoically, her posture the same as when she had taken her seat 17 hours prior. Every muscle in that jet colored, crystalline fragment laced figure strained - fatigued - but she refused to maneuver from pain inducing statuesque bearings. Some would see the torture as a personal aim at therapeutic recovery in lieu of her recent dismissal, though most of the other passengers were oblivious to her plight. Their own attention was set on the announcements, the arrivals times, and the eventual landing. Their destination was one she had never visited, though in most regards, already despised. Envy was a tolerable feeling to harbor when alone, but when surrounded by the faces of those more privileged than one's self, it easily took root.
All seemed destined for their plans. All except Phylo Za'an.
Arrival was smooth. A slide into docking, met with the side mechanisms on the port walls of the space station jet bridge reaching their metal fingers around fitted extended locks. The click alerted the woman before the others did, though their movements ensured she was able to follow suit. Slowly, very slowly, Phylo Za'an rose and joined the line of her fellow Roth Khaanian's towards the exits, where smiling faces of their flight attendants bid them fond farewells. Many of her fellow journeymen seemed far keener to disembark from the shuttle, but Phylo Za'an reached the exit and halted, sidling side to side as those stuck behind her gave questionable looks. It was the first time she had been this far from the Mother. This far from those she knew, she loved, and fear resided in the unknown.
Of all the quiet she had savored over all those hours seated, it had done nothing to numb bitter biting of her detachment; of her release from the home she wanted nothing more than to be a part of. To be cast away, thrown out with the rest of the useless components, it stung. An injury she couldn't begin to heal in the time she was given. The feeling reflected in how she spoke, asking the nearest attendant, "Have you been here?"
"In the station? Of course."
"Is it like home?" Phylo Za'an looked grim with the question.
At first, a response seemed immediate. A simple task in theory, but the other woman cut herself off quickly in favor of silence. The two figures were left staring at one another. Their intricate sets of gleaming jewels reflected from where they were embedded in their flesh as a signature to the race they both were unmistakably connected to, even if they weren't physically attached to the collective. The garden rejected them and neither knew the other's story, but their castration was mutual. A palpable sadness, it was almost bittersweet.
Finally the stewardess sighed and shook her head. "There is no home for you here. You will never know home or the Garden as you knew it. Some take to this better life better than others, but our kind... Is not welcome in all places. You will know this while staying here."
Phylo Za'an didn't acknowledge the response, luminous hues glazing over as her figure abruptly lurched away as an effort towards disembarking from the ship. Down a narrow ramp and through dim corridor she went, bouncing against the grip track while wrestling the terror that accompanied her journey like an offensive odor. Fed into a swarm of alien bodies, a gasp stole away from her hoarse throat - the lights above suddenly blinding and offensive to every sense she had left. Hand outstretched, digits groped over the neighboring placement map, the digital display warm against her skin.
(tbc but won't scrap)
[/sub][/spoiler]
BDRP Admin. Writer. Villain. Personal Blog.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.