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For aeons you have drifted through the stars, unthinking and unaware of the passage of both distances and times incomprehensible. A mineralized shell of petrified chitinous resin indistinguishable to the outside eye as anything other than a drifting rock has sheltered its precious cargo across the gulf of empty space for centuries beyond count.
Until now.
The vibrations and jostling that rattles your petrified cocoon are distant to you, alien, your mind and memory atrophied alongside your body, reduced to its simplest and most basic components over millennia of hibernation. But they resonate in some buried portion of your genetic instincts. Movement. Life. Biomass.
Food.
You begin to stir within your shell, your rocky cocoon jostling within the depths of a automated mining tug, the unthinking machine grazing the asteroid field like a gluttonous beast, filling its iron belly with chunks of ore and spaceborne debris mindlessly before it turns and begins its leisurely return. Within its belly, within your prison, you begin to stir, biological processes reawakening, nutrient slime metabolized to feed your body's reawakening. You are lesser, this you know. You once were so much more, so very much more than you are now. You know that you could be so again but first you must feed. You must feed and grow, the only thought the scattered network of ganglions and nerve webs that form your crude consciousness can form.
And so as the mining tug vomits forth it's catch in the depths of Mining Bay 17, a single stone in the cascade of pulverized asteroid fragments and ore goes unnoticed. Synthetic intelligences catalogue it as waste material, due for discard but that is all. The single set of rganic eyes in the mining bay are currently fixed on a holo-projection of "Zero-G Jugs" and so miss the strangely shaped and strangely shivering rock that patters across the rusted floors.
The cocoons rocky surface splits with a wet *crack* a dark slime oozing out slowly, gelatinous pseudopods feeling at the air experimentally.
You hunger...
>What do
Until now.
The vibrations and jostling that rattles your petrified cocoon are distant to you, alien, your mind and memory atrophied alongside your body, reduced to its simplest and most basic components over millennia of hibernation. But they resonate in some buried portion of your genetic instincts. Movement. Life. Biomass.
Food.
You begin to stir within your shell, your rocky cocoon jostling within the depths of a automated mining tug, the unthinking machine grazing the asteroid field like a gluttonous beast, filling its iron belly with chunks of ore and spaceborne debris mindlessly before it turns and begins its leisurely return. Within its belly, within your prison, you begin to stir, biological processes reawakening, nutrient slime metabolized to feed your body's reawakening. You are lesser, this you know. You once were so much more, so very much more than you are now. You know that you could be so again but first you must feed. You must feed and grow, the only thought the scattered network of ganglions and nerve webs that form your crude consciousness can form.
And so as the mining tug vomits forth it's catch in the depths of Mining Bay 17, a single stone in the cascade of pulverized asteroid fragments and ore goes unnoticed. Synthetic intelligences catalogue it as waste material, due for discard but that is all. The single set of rganic eyes in the mining bay are currently fixed on a holo-projection of "Zero-G Jugs" and so miss the strangely shaped and strangely shivering rock that patters across the rusted floors.
The cocoons rocky surface splits with a wet *crack* a dark slime oozing out slowly, gelatinous pseudopods feeling at the air experimentally.
You hunger...
>What do
