Right now, all you can do is try to stay still, and quiet, and hope the white is still asleep. If it realises it's snared something and takes control...
They make more noise you don't try to process; you need to save your energy for them or you won't be any use. You keep facing the blue until she addresses you, then focus as hard as you can. She wants to...wake it up? You try to reply, you really do, you want to be able to tell her how bad an idea that is in as many words as she uses, and make the words all long and complicated, but it's too much and the whole thing just swamps through your head and clogs your mouth up and all that comes out is, 'aa-aaaahh-ahhhh-aa-a'.
You shut your mouth. You close your eye and breathe until it feels normal enough to keep going. "If the white is awake...I won't think as well," you force out. "In my head...there are...voices? Thoughts with words that I didn't think but they're in there anyway." You look the blue dead in her two perfect eyes. "They're...quiet, when it's sleeping. When it wakes up...they get loud. Too loud for my thoughts to...to...haaaaaaahhh..."
[The room is full of curiosities: new scents of [sharp/metallic/hide/brutal] and [caustic/moist/fibrous/greasy]; pressures in the air; new gravities and interactions between points in space. It feels, not through Administrator but as a sense in and of itself. It has no eyes, no ears, no cortexes or acumen. It does not think.]
[It sleeps. It feels. It hungers.]
The white shudders and creeps more feelers under your feet, rocking you off-balance. You grab the pink's leg to keep from toppling, even as the coil around her leg grows minutely faster for the jostling. An unnoise fills the spaces unoccupied, felt more than heard in ways that don't cooperate with your processing. It might have looked like static behind one's eyes, or tasted like a gust of wind through a tunnel. It is an ambience of things that weren't.
It is the white, a bug in the system that has itself become a system. It is Hex.
The entire projection of white shudders once more, and starts to expand. The pink is talking to you, you think...yes, there was a question at the end. And it's a hard question to answer; the white hasn't woken up yet, but it's stirring, and disturbing the pool that much would get its attention for sure. You keen a little in uncertainty, trapped between the slow, creeping fear of its sleep and the loud everywhere-fear of its waking.
[[i][warm/bright/familiar][/i] extends a new vector for growth. It accepts the new direction, begins a secondary branch to continue its spread up the carpal phalanges Feelers spread as necessary to bind and immobilise. The primary branch reaches the pelvic junction, continues encircling and following whatever contours it can find purchase in.]
[New rootcode gestates.]
A monument rises from the white, entry stretching wide to allow the new projection. Shells are crushed into a torus around you and the pink. To a one, its outer layer is woven from the heads of beasts, mouths gaped open and vectors torn where no mouths exist. It swells with every inhale, cycles its internal atmosphere into the space around it to cultivate, recycles it back into the body to promote growth. Every iteration makes the beast pulse like a diseased heart.
Your eye itches. You can't move.
i̙͖̼͙̳͈̟͉ͮ̓̇ͪ͋t̼̼̮̰͇̱͍̠͋̏͛ͭ̌ ̩̝̼͍͔̜̮̔͛̀́́͒ͣͅf̟͙͛͋̊̃e͎͉ͫ̋ͪ͂̽̑ͮe̞̼̹̩͇͇͈͇͍ͦͥd͚̠̬̣̾̽͊̽̋s͙̠̪̗̙̻̗ͪ̀ͦ͌ͧ͋ ̝̼͚͉͍̗̤̻ͬ̓i͙̭͂̐̚̚t̤͖͍̤̙͙ͮ ͔͔͉̱̮̙̤ͧ̍ͧf̪͚̟̮̪̙̽͆͊̈̒ͨ̚ȇ̦͇ͤ͌e͓̹͈̩̱̅ͥ̓͂͒ͅd̠̔̌̈͛̏ͯ͆͒ͪs̙̫͓̞̱̯̒̐̋̄ ̳͍̫̮͈ͣͩ͋̅ͧ̅̒i͍̭͔ͤ͆ͤ̂̅͂̚t̥̲̹͉̩̹̪ͧ̒ ̳̟̗͎̼̗̭͛̀̽ͭͅͅf̲̠̦̗̘͚̦̳̊́̒̾e̹̹̪̖̗̓͗̔̍ͮ͗͐̏̎ë̼̩̪͓̘̙̞̓̿͊ͥ̒ͤ́̊ͅd̦̱͙͓̊̅́s̬͓̃̋͒ͤ̏ͥͅ ̲̞̹͉͗́̉̽̔ͯ̉
It isn't quite awake yet. Whatever its sleep is meant to do for it, it isn't finished yet. This, you think, is just a reaction to the increase in scents and pressure in the room, much like the feeler on the pink's leg. The pool is investigating the sharp and the caustic now, the ones whose scents make your face feel full of tiny, hot knives when you breathe.
i̝̣̙̥͙ͧ̏̋̓ͭt̝̜̱̘̉̄̀͛̌͗ ̘̬̻̗̬̉͗̉f̙ͤ̈̿ͩͨ̌ͤ̎͐e̲͙ͧ̒ͫ̈ͪë͉͖͙́ḏ̹̹̹̪͖ͦ͑̿s̙̀̔ ͔̰̫͚͚ͥ̄i͈̟̼͖̹̿̎ͭ͊̾̓̋̏̽t̪̝̟ͣ̿̆͋̌͋ ͍͖̝̳͎̟͌ͅf̙̦͇̭͎̒̑͗̓e͚̹͚̺̠̳̪̙̋̅͐e̼͇̗͚̤̭͔̾͒̑͒ͬd̪͎͔͖̹̾ͤͨͅs͍͈̣̞̟̥͈̍ͯ ͉̥͎̖͍̈́̔͛ͫ̓ͥ͂̚ͅẘ̘̗̿̿͒ͪ̍e͖̺̬̪̫̩̝̽ͧ ̮̩̲̥͍͂̌ͤ̅̒ͣ͆f͇͍̝̈̑̇̿ẹ͔̲̦̌̈́̉̄̓ͅē̦̪̜̬̠͖͙͉ͯ̒̂͊d̖̊ͫ̂́ ͔̘͚̤̻̯̟̟̔͌̓ͯ̈ỉ̳̗̳̹̭͗͗t̖̬͇̓́ͫ͐ͯ ͎̼̯ͣ͆͛̃̓̅͆h̲̤̥̲̮̖͕̖̣̆̀͆̊̂̓ù̱̫̣͈̖ͫͫ̐̊ͦͅr͔͖̗̹͒͛̚ẗ̩̹̻̆ͤ͛͂̔s̮͍̻̮̒̅̀̈̉͊ͤ͊ͪ ̘̰̫̮̭̫̼̖͚̇͒͆̍̀i̠̙͈̞̻̩̔͗ͫͬ͌̆ť̮̝̜̃ͬ͊̓̐ ̻̘̖͉̘͇̇ͧ̏̒ͯf̱̥̝̮̃̊̏̃̀̚e͕̹͈ͤ̉̔͊ḙ̘͚̣̲͚̞̓̑̑ͬ͋̂̀͂d͔̜͇͉̦ͤs͚͉̦̰͉̫͇̩͉ͭ͒̐̈̐̔̓
You still can't move. Your head is too crowded with fear and hurt and your connection to your body keeps failing and you need to do something anything now now now. Your hands reach into the white, pull a length up in your hands and hold it out to the blue even as it starts reaching out for further attachment. "Take it take it take it take it it's almost awake just take it!" The pool starts to follow up with more feelers and oh no no no it was going to give them way too much, the blue was going to be wrapped up and the white would wake up and find her and the pink both ready for feeding on and
i̻̥̫ͬ̈́ͩt̻̺̫̼̤̳̠̩̣ͯͧͭ͑͂͂̍ ̤̼̭̱̼́͊̅ͅf͙͈͙̗͓͌̋e̻̭̊͊͑ͥ̿̚e̼̓̈́̈̽d̯̠̻͍͑ͤͯ̌ͬͣͩs̻͚̥͈̝̼ͪ͌̇ ̹̻͈͚̰̱ͫ̿̍͌w̖͕͇͈͔͑̓e̟̪͒͛̔́̆ͤͧ̚ͅ ̯̣͗͛f͕̝̤̖͔͈̻̓͋͋͌͂̎ë͎̹̜̝͇̤̄͑̓ē̜͈̊ͦ̈́̄̈́͒͐̏ḏ̪͓͌̅̎͐̌ ̺͒ͨͮi̙̺̱ͥͭͮṯ̩̼̟̫̙ͫ̍ͮ͊ͫ ͍ͫ̈́̏̔f̺͈̩̜̥̠͛̌ͅe̘̰̖͒̋̎e͚̞͕̻̯̖͈ͧd̯̣̼̯̗̓ͬ̑̌s͈͍̜̠͙̋ͧ͆̇̊́̀̓ ̩͇̗͚̾́W͈̤̳̳̯̫̤̉ͣͨ͂̉̓E̫̗̮̯̜̗̗͕ͫ̽̌̐̇̾ͦͭ̈ ̠̲͕̣ͫ̇̊ͣ̑ͧ͆͌̚F͙̜̤͇̹͗̆̑̽ͯͧ̏ͪE̙̐̃̎̂E͇̜͚̗̦͓̙̍̽̏ͥ̽̈D̤͙̗̓̂ ̙̞̭̬͎̩̌̑̓ͪ͌́͋̎̚ͅͅI̭̥̗͂̂̉T͉̪͕͇ͨ̂ ̥̩͔͚̥̋ͯ̽͒̈ͅF̮͎͈̬͑͐ͨ̓̽E̠͕̤ͦ́ͥ̈ͮ̔̒̂ͫĒ͚̯ͯD͖͓̫̭̅ͯ̇ͪ̓̔S̬̃̋ͅ ̲͉͍̻̗͋͊̃̎̽ͬͫ͗ͅͅW̩͙̞͇̦̳̥͛̍̏ͥͬ͂ͪ̆Ë͇͙͙̩̭̝́͗̍̎͂̔̉͑ ͚͈̼̟͎͉̥̗ͫ͒̂͋ͪ̃F͙͕̫͔̠̯̿̂̋ͭ̐E͇͙̤̪̱ͣ͒̽̿ͅḘ̻̲̬̜̾ͮ̾ͅͅD̺̯̲̦̳͖̗̩̺ͭ̾̓͗ ͓̰͍̗̱̺̞̬̓̄͂̆̈̎Ȋ͉̲̮̙͕̥̖̺̺ͬ̑̚T̗̤̠̗̩͔̺ͪ͋͛̓ ̳̝̠̺̫̞̼͛̒̇͛͊̌ͨ́F̹̻̗͖̗̳̳̒ͅE̺͑̎͐̔͛̈́̇ͫ̽E͚̖̬̪̎͆̒͂D͉̫͋S͓̳̯̯̼͐̀ͧ ̫̱͂̋W̤ͦ̍̓͒ͧ̚E̗̠̳̣͉̥͐̈́ ̭̯͉̘̺ͣͅF͈͓̦̂E͓̖͕̱ͧ̇̍E̙ͦͪ̊͐̓̌̃D͍̗̪̺ͬ͛̅ͨ̚ |
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