||Attention, Attention. The following personnel please report to the Observation Deck. Attention, Attention. The following personnel please report to the Observation Deck
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Re: Captain's Quartersmeat_mooksJanuary 19 2012, 14:42:33 UTC
Also there were three shirts of wolves howling at the moon.
The journal's pages had a sort of weathered, dog-eared look. Its entries were mostly technical jargon, or sketches of sea life or personal details. What came across was that this was a dedicated man who had been recruited for a far-off mission and jumped at the chance to be a pioneer. There were no mentions of any other motive for being here besides the mining possibilities. However, some of the last few passages were especially worrisome and toward the end, the elegant cursive writing became jagged, smeared, and hard to read.
Some of cre* continuing to act... off. Maybe some kind of organism? Suspect **** might be involved. He was always into that xenob**logy stuff. But why? Ever since they came back from [rest illegible]
and the last entry:
MOTIVE?
As Howard was looking at the journal, the old radio propped up on one corner of the desk buzzed into life, playing a soothing song.
Re: Captain's Quartersi_sell_drugsJanuary 19 2012, 15:11:54 UTC
but are there christmas sweaters
Howard flicks over the technical jargon and pours over the personal details, even though they don't reveal much. The end, however. That not only gets his attention but totally confirms his suspicion that they're in a zombie movie.
Although god, it's like this guy's undone years of penmanship school to the end. How totally frustrating. And it's not ballpoint so there's no indents Howard can shade over onto blank paper.
He nearly jumps at the sound of the radio, stopping only because he realizes in the nick of time that he'd smash his head on the underside of the desk. He sneaks out from underneath, using utmost caution as he approaches the radio, wondering how it was that it got turned on.
Re: Captain's Quartersmeat_mooksJanuary 19 2012, 20:53:21 UTC
The cloth, as it turned out, was coming from the radio's case. So while the radio moved closer to the edge of the desk, the cloth also began spooling out from the case as Howard pulled on it. White cloth, about an inch and a half wide, a little frayed around the edges. As it emerged, the first speckles of red began to appear on the cloth's surface.
Re: Captain's Quartersmeat_mooksJanuary 20 2012, 16:09:22 UTC
There was now about two feet of cloth sticking out of the radio's case. The song was still playing. However, the spatter was quickly becoming darker splotches of red.
Re: Captain's Quartersi_sell_drugsJanuary 20 2012, 20:47:40 UTC
Howard wonders if the cloth will end when he pulls the cloth out, like these sheet-music plates for jukeboxes. He pauses for a moment, gets gloves out of his med kit, and keeps pulling.
And hopes he's not tugging on the tongue of a carnivorous radio because hey, stranger things have happened.
Grossness ahoymeat_mooksJanuary 20 2012, 20:53:33 UTC
The splotches turn darker and thicker, until they're almost black and they're not so much splotches as discolored patches of clotted gore. The area is quickly filling with the smell of putrefying flesh and disease.
There is now about five feet of cloth in Howard's hands.
Re: Grossness ahoyi_sell_drugsJanuary 21 2012, 05:32:08 UTC
Howard closes his eyes for a second and pushes away the memory of Epicurea's corpse trench. It's clearly organic, whatever it is. And putrid. And he's getting a feeling like he's going to regret pulling it all the way out.
So rather than continuing to unspool it, he pulls out his pocket knife and starts to try to pry open the place the cloth is unraveling from.
The radio jerked open with a loud, discordant screech; the rest of the cloth was bunched up in a ball in the center of its casing. There were bits sticking out of it, little organic bits that didn't look like they'd come from a human.
Inside was... well, it might have been the same kind of parasitic creature Erhart removed from that one unlucky dead crewman. Maybe. It was kind of hard to tell with that level of decay.
The question (well, one of the questions) was how it had gotten in the radio.
The journal's pages had a sort of weathered, dog-eared look. Its entries were mostly technical jargon, or sketches of sea life or personal details. What came across was that this was a dedicated man who had been recruited for a far-off mission and jumped at the chance to be a pioneer. There were no mentions of any other motive for being here besides the mining possibilities. However, some of the last few passages were especially worrisome and toward the end, the elegant cursive writing became jagged, smeared, and hard to read.
Some of cre* continuing to act... off. Maybe some kind of organism? Suspect **** might be involved. He was always into that xenob**logy stuff. But why? Ever since they came back from [rest illegible]
and the last entry:
MOTIVE?
As Howard was looking at the journal, the old radio propped up on one corner of the desk buzzed into life, playing a soothing song.
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Howard flicks over the technical jargon and pours over the personal details, even though they don't reveal much. The end, however. That not only gets his attention but totally confirms his suspicion that they're in a zombie movie.
Although god, it's like this guy's undone years of penmanship school to the end. How totally frustrating. And it's not ballpoint so there's no indents Howard can shade over onto blank paper.
He nearly jumps at the sound of the radio, stopping only because he realizes in the nick of time that he'd smash his head on the underside of the desk. He sneaks out from underneath, using utmost caution as he approaches the radio, wondering how it was that it got turned on.
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It did indeed smell like blood.
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And hopes he's not tugging on the tongue of a carnivorous radio because hey, stranger things have happened.
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There is now about five feet of cloth in Howard's hands.
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So rather than continuing to unspool it, he pulls out his pocket knife and starts to try to pry open the place the cloth is unraveling from.
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The smell was awful. But the music had stopped.
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He grabs a pen from his bag and pokes at the ball, then begins to unfolds it.
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The question (well, one of the questions) was how it had gotten in the radio.
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He wraps it back up and heads back towards the quarters, ready to dump this gross thing on someone else.
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