You are suddenly, exquisitely aware of just how disgusting human skin is, conceptually. Soft and rubbery (except where it isn't) and full of holes. It's a layer of chewy sponge covering meat and water. Not even enough hair to be pleasantly furry, except in seemingly random places.
This being, living this memory, sees you as a meat and water sausage in a spongy casing, and, wow, it is impressed. You have managed to make art, to make music, to take flight, to build marvels that scrape the sky and plumb the depths of your (not nearly thick enough) seas, to touch the moon and split atoms. All while being not much more than water and meat. Admirable.
"Please, one more time," says a man in long black robes sitting across from you — from the memory's owner, rather.
You, the human, can recognize this as an interrogation room: plain gray walls, a few uncomfortable folding chairs surrounding a rectangular metal table. On the far wall is a window which is actually a two-way mirror, but you can see through clearly with these strange inhuman eyes. A gaggle of men and women in similar robes to the man in front of you stand huddled together peering in. You also catch a glimpse of the memory owner's reflection, human, but not quite right. And hard to say how.
In front of you on the table, a manilla folder, many papers and photos, and a single lump of coal. In front of the man in the dark robes, his hands, clenched to fists from nerves. And in one of those clenched hands, a pen, white and gold, which he clicks incessantly.
"I… … … do not … eat...the rock," the memory owner struggles to say in a voice like gravel scraping together.
The man hums. "I'm very sorry. Is there anything we can get you?"
A long stretch of silence follows. The memory owner thinks.
"Coffee," they reply finally after a great deal of pondering through the English words they know.
"O-oh," says the robed man. He looks embarrassed. Then turns and nods to the people behind the window. One of them runs off, assumedly to grab a coffee.
"The... hunger. The… … … what is word? One who eats all." Painfully slow, the memory's owner tries once more to explain why they are here. "Freed from our land. Inviteed to ... yours. Have watched. Do not want suffering anymore. Weeeee have come here to offer. We know how to contain. Can watch the gates as they heal. If you push him back."
The man in the dark robes sits in stunned silence for a long time. In fact, everything is completely still. Quiet. It takes a moment to realize that the memory has frozen.
MEMORY: Coffee
[CRITERIA: Minimum 8 Tags]
[METAPLOT]
You are suddenly, exquisitely aware of just how disgusting human skin is, conceptually. Soft and rubbery (except where it isn't) and full of holes. It's a layer of chewy sponge covering meat and water. Not even enough hair to be pleasantly furry, except in seemingly random places.
This being, living this memory, sees you as a meat and water sausage in a spongy casing, and, wow, it is impressed. You have managed to make art, to make music, to take flight, to build marvels that scrape the sky and plumb the depths of your (not nearly thick enough) seas, to touch the moon and split atoms. All while being not much more than water and meat. Admirable.
"Please, one more time," says a man in long black robes sitting across from you — from the memory's owner, rather.
You, the human, can recognize this as an interrogation room: plain gray walls, a few uncomfortable folding chairs surrounding a rectangular metal table. On the far wall is a window which is actually a two-way mirror, but you can see through clearly with these strange inhuman eyes. A gaggle of men and women in similar robes to the man in front of you stand huddled together peering in. You also catch a glimpse of the memory owner's reflection, human, but not quite right. And hard to say how.
In front of you on the table, a manilla folder, many papers and photos, and a single lump of coal. In front of the man in the dark robes, his hands, clenched to fists from nerves. And in one of those clenched hands, a pen, white and gold, which he clicks incessantly.
"I… … … do not … eat...the rock," the memory owner struggles to say in a voice like gravel scraping together.
The man hums. "I'm very sorry. Is there anything we can get you?"
A long stretch of silence follows. The memory owner thinks.
"Coffee," they reply finally after a great deal of pondering through the English words they know.
"O-oh," says the robed man. He looks embarrassed. Then turns and nods to the people behind the window. One of them runs off, assumedly to grab a coffee.
"The... hunger. The… … … what is word? One who eats all." Painfully slow, the memory's owner tries once more to explain why they are here. "Freed from our land. Inviteed to ... yours. Have watched. Do not want suffering anymore. Weeeee have come here to offer. We know how to contain. Can watch the gates as they heal. If you push him back."
The man in the dark robes sits in stunned silence for a long time. In fact, everything is completely still. Quiet. It takes a moment to realize that the memory has frozen.