You Wake Up In Some Guy's House

You are a Hurricaszm-- and by the weakness of everything in your existence, you can tell that you are the best. This thought strikes you so rapidly and so suddenly that you're barely able to process the rest of your own being.

You stand at a mighty nine feet tall, clearing the kitchen counter by a couple of misshapen heads, and your stiff, crystalline bowl-head increases this height in a very... romantic fashion. You possess no clothes, so as to best absorb reflected rainwater and take in rainwater-- but all of this knowledge is only instinctual. You're still very unsure as to how exactly you're meant to even move around in this body.

But you feel like you're learning quickly.

The decrepit door at the other end of the bar finally clicks open. Beaming widely from the entrance is another figure-- the real source of what you thought was darklight. It saunters up to you casually, and you realize suddenly that it looks nothing like you. Aside from the whole existing deal. That's something you've got going for you.

The figure speaks.

You single-eye your surroundings. There are so many bottles, so many labels-- none of which you're capable of reading, you idiot. Canisters of glowing purple liquid atop a stool catch your eye-- is this what a house is? Maybe it's the gel-like substance growing beneath the cash register? One of the clear bottles hanging from the ceiling, boiling incessantly?

You're going to need to be a great houseguest.