
It had been three days since you had awoken. The ship was still quiet, except for the low hums of enigmatic machines with no apparent purpose. You awake, like usual, to dim lighting and poor rations. Perhaps being on the ship had grown monotonous — it was, perhaps, amazing how little anything seemed to happen in space, a final frontier of malaise.
That monotony is crushed by a voice echoing through the narrow hallways.
Reformatting . . .
Reformatting . . .
Reformatting complete. The Pygmalion is online. Welcome, travelers. Please assemble in the meeting room. Your presence is mandatory.Silence falls once again. A minute or so passes, and the lights around the ship finally brighten, the walls looking more alive and more unfamiliar — as if you must relearn the ship's interior once again. The robots on deck begin to make rounds, nudging and pushing at the ship's passengers to make their way to the meeting room. You hear the doors behind you lock. It seems there is only one path to take.
ENTER COMMAND_
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[it is adrien's understanding that most teens eat pizza like, all the time, obviously]
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[ dave strider's life is a TRAGEDY. ]
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Three years-- what were you, on a massive diet?
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[ this is better in terms of space rocks to be stuck on
so far
the murder will bring it down to worse tbh ]
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[this is clearly the most important thing here]
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[ i.e. he's pretty sure "because we had to escape our universe since we scratched it and also a dog monster was chasing us" would get a ridiculous reaction... ]
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Sounds like it's just one space shenanigan after another for you. At least you've got access to pizza here?
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[ you count in that category, adrien. ]
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You're right about that.
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Of course I am, my taste is impeccable.