RE: TERRARIUM - Round 1: Apocalypse
09-09-2017, 04:35 PM
Zakam felt warm blood entering its haemo-engine with satisfaction. The youth’s purchases on top of what it had scavenged from the corpse now put its fuel bladder at a little below half capacity (though it was a little concerned about the corpse-blood -- the way it churned and metabolised didn’t feel quite right in its engine, something subtly off-kilter).
“I am obligated to inform you that I cannot accept more than four blood donations from one person per week,” said Zakam. In a quick series of eye-confounding movements it skewered an ear of corn, brushed it with mayonnaise and sour cream, sprinkled it with fragrant herbs and chili powder, and presented it to Mercator.
“You must be hungry,” it said. As the youth reached out gingerly, taking the skewer in a hand already busy with his first elote (the other was holding his bow), Zakam flipped open two other compartments in its cart. One steamed with ice, the other simply steamed. “Would you care for a beverage?” it asked, fingers stippling through a rack of cold cans and bottles. “Some chapulines, for a side?” It gestured. Mercator’s gaze dropped.
This rack was full of fried grasshoppers on skewers, all lined neatly up in rows. They bristled with legs.
“Very well,” said Zakam, observing the look on the youth’s face. The pale, slightly unfocused look. The compartments slid closed again.
“Uh.” Again that unconscious head-tilting, as if listening to some quiet, distant voice. He tilted slightly more than before. “Boss, I think I need to lie down…”
-No! Ask it! Ask it where it was made, who made it, how -
“Ah,” said Zakam, who heard nothing, who watched as Mercator slowly folded at the knees. His corn fell uneaten on pavement. Sad stains of mayonnaise. “Is this your first time giving blood?”
The youth collapsed in a faint. As he fell, someone else rose. Zakam’s mask turned to face the not-quite-newcomer, who had in fact been lying in the alley for some time now, but was new by virtue of being unexpectedly animate again.
“You,” rasped the corpse with the broken-egg head. It got to its feet on still-limber joints, not dead long enough for rigor mortis, emanating an awareness that was not its own. “You’re not one of mine. You’re not one of anyone’s. What the hell are you, and how did you get here?”
Zakam considered its options.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” it asked.
“I am obligated to inform you that I cannot accept more than four blood donations from one person per week,” said Zakam. In a quick series of eye-confounding movements it skewered an ear of corn, brushed it with mayonnaise and sour cream, sprinkled it with fragrant herbs and chili powder, and presented it to Mercator.
“You must be hungry,” it said. As the youth reached out gingerly, taking the skewer in a hand already busy with his first elote (the other was holding his bow), Zakam flipped open two other compartments in its cart. One steamed with ice, the other simply steamed. “Would you care for a beverage?” it asked, fingers stippling through a rack of cold cans and bottles. “Some chapulines, for a side?” It gestured. Mercator’s gaze dropped.
This rack was full of fried grasshoppers on skewers, all lined neatly up in rows. They bristled with legs.
“Very well,” said Zakam, observing the look on the youth’s face. The pale, slightly unfocused look. The compartments slid closed again.
“Uh.” Again that unconscious head-tilting, as if listening to some quiet, distant voice. He tilted slightly more than before. “Boss, I think I need to lie down…”
-No! Ask it! Ask it where it was made, who made it, how -
“Ah,” said Zakam, who heard nothing, who watched as Mercator slowly folded at the knees. His corn fell uneaten on pavement. Sad stains of mayonnaise. “Is this your first time giving blood?”
The youth collapsed in a faint. As he fell, someone else rose. Zakam’s mask turned to face the not-quite-newcomer, who had in fact been lying in the alley for some time now, but was new by virtue of being unexpectedly animate again.
“You,” rasped the corpse with the broken-egg head. It got to its feet on still-limber joints, not dead long enough for rigor mortis, emanating an awareness that was not its own. “You’re not one of mine. You’re not one of anyone’s. What the hell are you, and how did you get here?”
Zakam considered its options.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” it asked.