Post by Moss on Oct 24, 2010 22:36:45 GMT -6
Moskva was the first to ascend the ramp into the dimly lit room. It had the feel of a command center, spatial reasoning placing this place above the rest of the ship. But the place lacked dials and knobs, or anything that expressed any sense of control, really. The first shorter end of the room was the ramp from which they emerged, the other pointed forward toward what he could only assume was the front of the place. And the entire place was basked in an eerie viridian glow.
"No rails," the scout remarked, always the observer of the obvious. This thing moved, right? One would assume that the people inside needed something to hold on to, right?
The glow itself was emanating from countless orbs that floating of their own accord. But with no wires to hold them, they danced like glowing pixies across the ceiling. In fact, they seemed to follow the pair, casting green shadows against the impossibly smooth metallic floor, shifting slowly like a spotlight against the water of a calm pool. Moskva turned, batting one away. It shot hastily across the room without a sound, but his hand never felt a thing.
"What are these things?" The scout asked the girl that had tagged along with him, and the dozen or so orbs pulsated to match his voice instantaneously. He squinted, reaching out for another, and it brightened, warming.
Burning.
He snatched his hand away and howled beneath his breath. Wrapping his hand into his scarf he cursed, shooting a look of death at the plasma bubbles. "Fair enough, no touching." Moskva crossed the the forward section of the bridge, the bubbles growing all too quiet. And that's when he noticed the writing on the wall. No, literally, the writing on the wall. A foreign script of swirls and crossing lines, too random to be a decoration, or a pattern of any sort, reaching up from the perimeter of the floor to a large circle at the forward section. And the circle inside gave way, soundlessly melting away like burning cinema film to reveal a desert beyond.
He looked back to see if his companion had noticed anything out of the ordinary. But she couldn't, not unless she stepped forward. Moskva sighed. This was all too weird. Sure, he'd heard of the visitors before, but they were a myth. A legend, right? None of this could possibly be real, but here they were. Like a stupid puppy he reached forward, obviously not learning his lesson, to grab the desert, and his hand met only cold metal.
"What are these things? What are these things? What are these things?" A dozen voices called from behind him, some more coordinated than others. Some in accents, some in other languages entirely. Some he had heard, others had died away long ago with the cultures that spoke them.
He spun on his heels, swinging his rifle from his shoulder and aiming at the nearest orb, that just so happened to be over Milwaulkee's shoulder. "No. What are these. Rails. Things?" The bubbles hardly seemed to care about whatever threat the scout thought he posed.
On the floor in front of him, between the girl and the rifleman, were words. Tiny script, and unlikely the alien symbols that lined the wall, this one was in English. Hastily written, and finished mid-sentence:
Never regret thy fall, O
"No rails," the scout remarked, always the observer of the obvious. This thing moved, right? One would assume that the people inside needed something to hold on to, right?
The glow itself was emanating from countless orbs that floating of their own accord. But with no wires to hold them, they danced like glowing pixies across the ceiling. In fact, they seemed to follow the pair, casting green shadows against the impossibly smooth metallic floor, shifting slowly like a spotlight against the water of a calm pool. Moskva turned, batting one away. It shot hastily across the room without a sound, but his hand never felt a thing.
"What are these things?" The scout asked the girl that had tagged along with him, and the dozen or so orbs pulsated to match his voice instantaneously. He squinted, reaching out for another, and it brightened, warming.
Burning.
He snatched his hand away and howled beneath his breath. Wrapping his hand into his scarf he cursed, shooting a look of death at the plasma bubbles. "Fair enough, no touching." Moskva crossed the the forward section of the bridge, the bubbles growing all too quiet. And that's when he noticed the writing on the wall. No, literally, the writing on the wall. A foreign script of swirls and crossing lines, too random to be a decoration, or a pattern of any sort, reaching up from the perimeter of the floor to a large circle at the forward section. And the circle inside gave way, soundlessly melting away like burning cinema film to reveal a desert beyond.
He looked back to see if his companion had noticed anything out of the ordinary. But she couldn't, not unless she stepped forward. Moskva sighed. This was all too weird. Sure, he'd heard of the visitors before, but they were a myth. A legend, right? None of this could possibly be real, but here they were. Like a stupid puppy he reached forward, obviously not learning his lesson, to grab the desert, and his hand met only cold metal.
"What are these things? What are these things? What are these things?" A dozen voices called from behind him, some more coordinated than others. Some in accents, some in other languages entirely. Some he had heard, others had died away long ago with the cultures that spoke them.
He spun on his heels, swinging his rifle from his shoulder and aiming at the nearest orb, that just so happened to be over Milwaulkee's shoulder. "No. What are these. Rails. Things?" The bubbles hardly seemed to care about whatever threat the scout thought he posed.
On the floor in front of him, between the girl and the rifleman, were words. Tiny script, and unlikely the alien symbols that lined the wall, this one was in English. Hastily written, and finished mid-sentence:
Never regret thy fall, O
