It's the slime tickling at your nose that finally does it.
You always sleep dry. It's easier to just take a sopor pill and slip onto your couch for the day than face the hassle of getting inside your old, outdated recuperacoon. It's smarter, too! When you sleep in a 'coon, you have to wash the sopor off your skin afterwards, and when you're in a van, sometimes miles from the nearest source of water and with only a ten gallon tank to your name..
Well. Peeling sopor skim off of your skin takes entirely too much time, dry.
The only time you use your recuperacoon is when you're ill, and right now, you feel perfectly fine. Maybe your mouth is a little dry from too much sopor, but your pan is clear, and you feel like you've had an entire days worth of sleep.
The only other time is when you're in someone else's 'coon, and the only time that happens is when --
You weren't that drunk, yesterday. Were you?
You're relieved to find you're alone in the recuperacoon when you open your eyes, but the room around you is dim and unfamiliar. Everything is stone: the short ceiling above you, only ten or eight feet, the walls around you, and when you lean forward and peek - yes, even the floors underneath. Worse yet, it's all damp, the light of your eyes catching on the shiny streaks of what you hope is water residue on every surface.
When you move to climb out, you relaise you're damp, and sticky. Whoever dumped you into the recuperacoon didn't strip you, and the temporary relief that inspires is overset by the surge of disgust as you try to move, and the clothing clings like a shroud to your skin in response.
Your shirt is green. Your pants are green, and not even a good shade: it's the same neon green as the sopor, just diluted. There's guides online for removing food, and dirt, and blood from fabric, but you've never seen one on removing sopor. How are you even going to get that out?
Still, you remind yourself, peeling carefully out of the cocoon, it's better than the alternative. There's only been one or two times that you've overestimated your metabolism, and drank enough that even your psionics couldn't compensate. Waking up in some strangers hive, undressed and sore and with no idea where you were - you haven't done that since you were seven, but you still remember how terrifyingly unpleasant the entire experience was.
You're in a strange hive, certainly, but you're dressed, and you feel fine. When you take a careful step, stretching out your legs, there's no worrisome aches or pains, and the tension in your thoracic cage unwinds. Maybe you did over-drink, but there's obviously nothing sinister going on here: you just made a new friend. Probably.
=> PHERES: Wake up.
You always sleep dry. It's easier to just take a sopor pill and slip onto your couch for the day than face the hassle of getting inside your old, outdated recuperacoon. It's smarter, too! When you sleep in a 'coon, you have to wash the sopor off your skin afterwards, and when you're in a van, sometimes miles from the nearest source of water and with only a ten gallon tank to your name..
Well. Peeling sopor skim off of your skin takes entirely too much time, dry.
The only time you use your recuperacoon is when you're ill, and right now, you feel perfectly fine. Maybe your mouth is a little dry from too much sopor, but your pan is clear, and you feel like you've had an entire days worth of sleep.
The only other time is when you're in someone else's 'coon, and the only time that happens is when --
You weren't that drunk, yesterday. Were you?
You're relieved to find you're alone in the recuperacoon when you open your eyes, but the room around you is dim and unfamiliar. Everything is stone: the short ceiling above you, only ten or eight feet, the walls around you, and when you lean forward and peek - yes, even the floors underneath. Worse yet, it's all damp, the light of your eyes catching on the shiny streaks of what you hope is water residue on every surface.
When you move to climb out, you relaise you're damp, and sticky. Whoever dumped you into the recuperacoon didn't strip you, and the temporary relief that inspires is overset by the surge of disgust as you try to move, and the clothing clings like a shroud to your skin in response.
Your shirt is green. Your pants are green, and not even a good shade: it's the same neon green as the sopor, just diluted. There's guides online for removing food, and dirt, and blood from fabric, but you've never seen one on removing sopor. How are you even going to get that out?
Still, you remind yourself, peeling carefully out of the cocoon, it's better than the alternative. There's only been one or two times that you've overestimated your metabolism, and drank enough that even your psionics couldn't compensate. Waking up in some strangers hive, undressed and sore and with no idea where you were - you haven't done that since you were seven, but you still remember how terrifyingly unpleasant the entire experience was.
You're in a strange hive, certainly, but you're dressed, and you feel fine. When you take a careful step, stretching out your legs, there's no worrisome aches or pains, and the tension in your thoracic cage unwinds. Maybe you did over-drink, but there's obviously nothing sinister going on here: you just made a new friend. Probably.
Right?