Hall of Infinite Doors
You're in a large, long room walled in riveted metal and stacked with a varied collection of padded crates. Recessed lights spew fluorescent brightness from the high ceiling, and a variety of bright red stickers slapped over the lips of the assembled crates suggest that this is a cargo room. There is a sense of pressure in the air, and the constant hum seems to come from the walls around you; you are almost certainly in transit, likely on some sort of cargo plane. There are armed guards present, wearing patchwork armor of dull, scavenged plates over some sort of metallic weave; one has his hand on a large red switch, and each is armed with smooth, scoped rifles of a wholly unfamiliar type. There are a half-dozen of them, and they're all looking at you.
But the worst part is the cages. There are two of them in the room: one contains yourself, and in the other lurks something like a coalescing of all your nightmares. Though its cage is scarcely larger than your own, the hideous creature is packed into every available inch, its bulk oozing through the alloy bars. It resembles a large, segmented, pinkish-red worm, coiled upon itself like a cubical knot; thin, purplish filaments, each the thickness of your thumb, ooze from the cracks between the segments and grip tight to whatever is within range. It is constantly moving and twisting, trying to ease its uncomfortable confinement. It oozes a translucent pink jelly, and is the obvious source of the disagreeable smell. As it rotates in its cage, you catch a glimpse of the thing's mouth: a vast, sucking throat extending down into the thing's gullet, lined with jagged teeth, extruding a few more of those noxious filaments like a handful of loathsome tongues.
"That's about it for the atmospheric interference, I think," calls the one by the switch. "Wanna prep our superstar for the drop?"
You hear a rustling beside you. Another guard is there, reaching through the bars to grasp at your collar; you try to resist, but he shoves a long, thin prod through the cage that simply numbs your body to frigid uselessness upon contact. You dangle limply from his grip as he removes a small, square package from his pocket, opens it in one deft motion and removes a strip of what looks like skin. He presses it hard against your neck; even through the numbing, you can feel the heat of the thing adhering to your flesh.
"All done!", he calls. "Nerve transmitter's in place. Tell Lark at the helm that we are a go for drop."
"Don't forget the blood!"
"Right," grumbles your captor. Another tool removed: this one a small silver tube with a very recognizeable needle at the tip, which he dutifully jams into your unresisting arm and removes a small ampule of blood. He passes this to one of his companions, who gingerly reaches in and squirts it into the heaving maw of the monster across from you. You can't be sure if it's your imagination or not, but it seems to grow more active and agitated at the taste.
"What are you doing to me?" you manage to spit out as soon as you get your mouth to work. Raucous laughter answers you, and you feel someone slap your shoulder through the bars. "Don't you remember?" calls the man who doctored your neck. "We've got you all wired up. You're going to be a star!"
At that point, the entire rear section of the room simply ceases to be. You see thick jungle below you, traveling past faster than you'd have liked. Despite your screams of protest, the handful of guardsmen grip your cage and push you towards that gaping aperture, shouting their versions of witty one-liners as they unceremoniously drop you from the plane.
All you can do...
But the worst part is the cages. There are two of them in the room: one contains yourself, and in the other lurks something like a coalescing of all your nightmares. Though its cage is scarcely larger than your own, the hideous creature is packed into every available inch, its bulk oozing through the alloy bars. It resembles a large, segmented, pinkish-red worm, coiled upon itself like a cubical knot; thin, purplish filaments, each the thickness of your thumb, ooze from the cracks between the segments and grip tight to whatever is within range. It is constantly moving and twisting, trying to ease its uncomfortable confinement. It oozes a translucent pink jelly, and is the obvious source of the disagreeable smell. As it rotates in its cage, you catch a glimpse of the thing's mouth: a vast, sucking throat extending down into the thing's gullet, lined with jagged teeth, extruding a few more of those noxious filaments like a handful of loathsome tongues.
"That's about it for the atmospheric interference, I think," calls the one by the switch. "Wanna prep our superstar for the drop?"
You hear a rustling beside you. Another guard is there, reaching through the bars to grasp at your collar; you try to resist, but he shoves a long, thin prod through the cage that simply numbs your body to frigid uselessness upon contact. You dangle limply from his grip as he removes a small, square package from his pocket, opens it in one deft motion and removes a strip of what looks like skin. He presses it hard against your neck; even through the numbing, you can feel the heat of the thing adhering to your flesh.
"All done!", he calls. "Nerve transmitter's in place. Tell Lark at the helm that we are a go for drop."
"Don't forget the blood!"
"Right," grumbles your captor. Another tool removed: this one a small silver tube with a very recognizeable needle at the tip, which he dutifully jams into your unresisting arm and removes a small ampule of blood. He passes this to one of his companions, who gingerly reaches in and squirts it into the heaving maw of the monster across from you. You can't be sure if it's your imagination or not, but it seems to grow more active and agitated at the taste.
"What are you doing to me?" you manage to spit out as soon as you get your mouth to work. Raucous laughter answers you, and you feel someone slap your shoulder through the bars. "Don't you remember?" calls the man who doctored your neck. "We've got you all wired up. You're going to be a star!"
At that point, the entire rear section of the room simply ceases to be. You see thick jungle below you, traveling past faster than you'd have liked. Despite your screams of protest, the handful of guardsmen grip your cage and push you towards that gaping aperture, shouting their versions of witty one-liners as they unceremoniously drop you from the plane.
All you can do...