Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
The Blank Artifact
Darkness. Abysmal, treacherous darkness. Sleep?
It drew out. Step by step, cube by cube, until it contracted and formed a ripple. Swirled. Confusion. Moist? Devious.
Light. Searing, blinding light. Life.
The man woke up with a shocking jolt.
He was heaving, in and out, his skin covered in satin liquid. It pricked his skin; a thousand needles, pressing wildly against his thin protection. The man shifted.
He couldn't shift, he later realized.
He stared, both bewildered and confused, at his environs. He couldn't see anything. His eyes had just opened. Once the dizzying mist of gold and rainbow subsided, he saw the linings of a door. A pod. A capsule. He was enclosed. He wasn't sleeping — he was put to sleep. The awakening was rude, vague memories of a bygone life still interspersed throughout his mind, darting to and fro avoiding capture. He was unable to piece them together. Even catch them. Funny, trying to catch memories. He tried to utter a single chuckle. No sound came out. He wasn't surprised.
Soon, the linings of the translucent hatch shifted and teared open. A sharp hiss invaded his ears, the door depressing and the mechanisms forcing it to budge off. The cacophony hurt his ears. Those were just getting used to it, he thought. The man exhaled another groan, painful as it was. It came out as a feeble, oscillating whimper. Progress, he perceived. The door opened, and then he was exposed to an unknown dark. The light in his pod flickered, teetering dangerously close to shutting off. He hoped it wouldn't.
It, this strange circumstance, felt like a bad dream, the man could assert. He remembered doing something of sorts, something that wasn't sleeping nor entering this macabre tool — his jagged memory induced more fury than what his poor motor functions might have.
The place beyond was pitch black, lit scantly by the minimal functions of the pod. The uncanny bed substitute was hard to the back. He discovered his bones ached, badly. His body, all of it, ached. Only his head remained safe, though, unnerving was its stolid numbness.
The dull pain gnawed away at his bones, as he tried to move his fingers. His arms. His head, foremost. It was a mistake, the man realized, but it was far too late. The whole world spun, without end, without meaning. Vertigo, a bad one. A few minutes more and he would be puking, he decided. His head fell victim to periodic pangs of throbbing pain right then, adding salt to his wounds. He preferred the insensitivity to that.
The man, mostly unperturbed, struggled to lift his left hand up on the rails of the pod's door. A piercing pain shook through his nerves, followed by tremors of shock. He started back, onto the hard surface, the back of his head slamming against it. He groaned again. It was more audible, this time. Silver linings. He bitter smile developed on his lips.
The task was, ultimately, tedious, but he was able to shrug off the pain, which he had come to acknowledge by now. Having set his jittery hands on the railing, he breathed a sigh of relief. He looked around a bit. The low drone of the pod, coughing as its power oozed away, gave the ambiance a dreary tilt. The light flickered with renewed vigour. The man tried to move his leg: he succeeded, although it hurt both his nerves and his pale dignity. He supposed he looked pathetic, gaunt too, likely.
His body soon regained its feeling. His nervous system was booting up, he discerned, though the pain persevered. Breathing was difficult. He could hear it rasping through his lungs. He grumbled, before attempting to mutter a word. Anything.
He grasped the situation at hand. His mind was hazy, the feeling one gets when they're too drunk. He was in an unknown place, one likely scarcely functioning. He was awakened for a reason.
"Hrmph," He murmured, “shit.” It was a dragging drawl. He could speak, he can speak. Talk, conversations.
His voice was ragged and raspy, tinged with age and inexperience. His throat was dry. Speaking was painful.
He lifted his back. Good, he mused, good. He peeked over the railing. Nothing. No sound, except for the chunky buzz. No object, aside from the metallic plates which formed the room. He inched, and lifted his feet over the railing and the edges of the door. He did that to the other, and both on level ground, he got off. His bare feet touched the floor. It was cold.
He could still hear his own breathing. It was sporadic. Curious that humans tend to notice the most minor detail at the most hysterical of moments. He shook his head. He needed to find out exactly where he was. No lumbering. He stretched his limbs. The bones emitted a distinct crack. His muscles had become taut. Stretching was painful.
The man looked around the room. There was the pod, beside it, affixed to the wall was a cabinet. He couldn't make it out clearly. There was the pod. In front of him was a door. Manual.
There was a lot of things to do. He mulled over the possibilities.
A) Examine the pod.
B) Explore the cabinet.
C) Check the door.
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