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mordicai caeli

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April 19th, 2004

of roller coaster theory. [Apr. 19th, 2004|09:11 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |d, world destruction.]
[Current Music |crown me king feat. chris latta- megatron, you fool!]

the rust on the sword told a story of retribution, of blood spilt & left to adorn the blade as a grim reminder of deaths achieved. what a thing to have stashed behind a bar in place of a scattergun, or baseball bat. hell, in england they'd probably even have cricket bat or whatever. so thats the mystery i'm up against. why is there a blood stained samurai sword on the shelf below the register of the bar none bar of boise, idaho?
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clamp down on the stearing wheel. [Apr. 19th, 2004|10:00 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |a metaphor for your heart.]
[Current Music |crown me king- architectural design by sennacherib]

you are not alone in your spaceship: the solitude of those constellation spanning gears is now shattered. those winking status screens are no longer secret; the airlock no longer cycles only for you. you have been invaded by an alien force, something carapaced & wriggling. something hybrid, human enough to watch with curiosity as you pray five times a day facing in the direction of your homeworld. something alien enough to avoid any tiresome issues of empathy. something that feels the hum of your reactor, drawn to the low sussurus as slugs of matter & antimatter collide together.

one by one the specimins in your laboratory dissapear completely, the glass of their aquariums & terrariums unbroken. the night you keep up watch in the lab is presumably the night that the xenomorph devours all the blood reserves in the medical bay. slowly the vessel is left empty, devoid of any organic tissue exept you & presumably it. your prayer mat, synthesized from hydrocarbons, is the last thing to go, leaving your knees on the bulkheads. the moniters show the hull as pristine, unpockmarked by the expected impacts of micrometeorites.

in your mind, the thing has grown, has become some great shaitan. you've ascribed methods to it, an agenda, as supernatural aspect. it was fate that brought it to your ship, leaving the ribcage of support struts gaping around the now cathedral like emptiness of the main berth. your security system was flawless, without equal. a single weapons group (of which there are many, mounted both inside & out) is capable of turning enemies into vapor, of boiling off planetary atmospheres. you value your hermitage; you even went so far as to cripple the ship's artificial intellegence. it went from super-genius to mongoloid infant with the flick of a few switches.

but here you are at last, invaded.
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