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The softest parts of me on the inside are wrapped in porcelain and connected by a series of tubes. The blood that flows through them is thick and dank. It means that I can’t move very fast but that doesn’t matter in this environment. All that matters is the neural softplug that controls the jets of my cloudpack.
I’m floating through the opaque mist of a gas midget. It’s like Jupiter but half the size of Earth. Hardly anything is holding it together and it’s 80 per cent plasmic methane. The scientist and the bean counter got together this time in the air conditioned comfort of their office labs and came up with a truly awful and unique way to torture us . They figured that since shipping oxygen is expensive, the cheapest way to send us here was to reconfigure us to be able to breathe the atmosphere. You wouldn’t recognize me as human.
The top half of my head is a nearly basketball sized sphere of resonant aluminum flewbone. A tiny hammer in between where my eyes used to be hits me on the forehead once every thirty seconds to send out a radar ping. This helps me see motion through the liquid clouds around me. The bottom half of my face is a giant gilled scoop like on a rewhale but smaller. This helps me breathe the jellied methane atmosphere.
The exosurgeons didn’t take away our sense of smell. Methane smells bad. This excuse for a planet has a thick dank fart for an atmosphere that I have to breathe to survive. The unique torture of it is that I’m getting used to it. Days can go by now before the part of my brain that recognizes how bad it stinks here wakes up in revulsion and nearly makes me start screaming. Like I’m in a body cast and I have an itch at the base of my spine. It passes.
I’m cheap labour hunting for treasure. There are two hundred of us here and it’ll take a year of floating around like this to map the midget. I keep thinking of the bonus I’ll get at the end of this and move on to the next gridpoint.
tags
I’m floating through the opaque mist of a gas midget. It’s like Jupiter but half the size of Earth. Hardly anything is holding it together and it’s 80 per cent plasmic methane. The scientist and the bean counter got together this time in the air conditioned comfort of their office labs and came up with a truly awful and unique way to torture us . They figured that since shipping oxygen is expensive, the cheapest way to send us here was to reconfigure us to be able to breathe the atmosphere. You wouldn’t recognize me as human.
The top half of my head is a nearly basketball sized sphere of resonant aluminum flewbone. A tiny hammer in between where my eyes used to be hits me on the forehead once every thirty seconds to send out a radar ping. This helps me see motion through the liquid clouds around me. The bottom half of my face is a giant gilled scoop like on a rewhale but smaller. This helps me breathe the jellied methane atmosphere.
The exosurgeons didn’t take away our sense of smell. Methane smells bad. This excuse for a planet has a thick dank fart for an atmosphere that I have to breathe to survive. The unique torture of it is that I’m getting used to it. Days can go by now before the part of my brain that recognizes how bad it stinks here wakes up in revulsion and nearly makes me start screaming. Like I’m in a body cast and I have an itch at the base of my spine. It passes.
I’m cheap labour hunting for treasure. There are two hundred of us here and it’ll take a year of floating around like this to map the midget. I keep thinking of the bonus I’ll get at the end of this and move on to the next gridpoint.
tags