[Rider starts when he wakes to a skeleton in front of him, but out of surprise, not horror. His brow quickly knits as he gives a confused frown. He knows what he's looking at, of course. Bones, human ones. They're in museums and science books everywhere. They're not even terribly difficult to find on your own if you dig around in some places, and certainly no fish skeleton looks quite like that, so any inkling would know what they are. But why is he waking up on what looks and feels like a rickety ship with a whole bunch of them all dressed up? Is someone trying to prank him?]
I swear, if I've gotten dragged into- what?
[His hand goes immediately to his mouth, and that's when Rider knows something is truly very wrong. His voice didn't come out right; it sounds flat and alien. He's already pulling himself to his feet, pushing through the numb shock as more and more doesn't add up. The texture of his skin is wrong. His limbs feel oddly stiff. He runs his tongue along his beak, finding instead a row of much smaller individual things in his mouth - teeth. He pulls his hand away again and stares at it, closing it slowly into a fist as he notices the strange... shells? at the tips of his too-rounded fingers and the tiny hairs barely visible against his skin.
He doesn't have to touch his head to conclude that he no longer has tentacles there, but he does anyway, cringing at the soft, stringy feel of what can only be some kind of fur. His ears are tiny and round now, and-
No, stop. He forces his hand back down, shaking himself. He can't think about this right now. He has to get out of here, figure out where he is and who or what is behind this. And whether anyone else he knows is involved, because Rider knows that if the others are here it'll probably be down to him to be the sane one about it.
The first thing he does is search every nook and cranny below decks, though the bottles of rum go ignored altogether and the chests only get a scowl when he pries them open and finds nothing useful inside. His Dynamo Roller doesn't seem to be here anywhere, so he's without a weapon too. If he could even use it like this in the first place.
He may, however, be so focused on his search that he's managed to miss that he's not entirely alone. Bother the intense but shaken looking teen in the leather jacket, or bide your time?]
[Three]
[Getting a laptop handed to him and told that there's an online network is the most strangely comforting thing that's happened to Rider since he arrived. The machine may be bulky and clunky, and he may not have been the biggest user of social media back home, but it's at least something familiar. So, he's sat down on a bench by a main road, and wastes no time in posting without even glancing at the current recent and popular posts.]
< InkyRider > I can already tell that this place is going to be a giant headache, so I have just one question.
Are there any competitive sports around here? Preferably weapons based, but I'll take anything to blow off some steam.
Also, please let me know if anyone sees a blue idiot wearing goggles.
[Four]
[Rider's heard it all plenty of times by now. You'll turn into a monster. It's the fog. There's no way to prevent it. It doesn't sound the least bit pleasant, but he's grumpily resigned himself to the fact that all he can really do is brace himself for it.
The fog still catches him off guard.
He was walking home from the part-time job he'd picked up, and he'd looked down to briefly tally the pay he'd gotten that day. When he looks back up, he can't see a foot in front of him. He slows immediately, cautiously pocketing the money, but on the very next step his foot seems to sink right into the ground.
He stares at it, and for a long moment all that goes through his mind is wondering how on earth he'd managed to lose control of his ink. After slightly too long he remembers that he's no longer an inkling, and his foot really shouldn't be dissolving into a lime green puddle for any reason.
Except one.]
Crap! No, not now...!
[Rider reaches out, trying to grab his leg and pull it back upwards, but that... doesn't really help when said leg is literally becoming goo. It's spreading, too, his form taking on a slick, glossy, semi-transparent greenish sheen as he slowly loses cohesion. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it feels a lot like very slowly being splatted in a way that's very wrong, and Rider fails to pull himself together before he begins to panic.
He flails at anything he can possibly catch hold of - the streetlight next to him, a passerby, even the ground itself once he sinks low enough, but it's all in vain. His fingers turn to mush at the slightest pressure, slipping around whatever he tries to grab, and by the time he thinks to call for help all he can make is a pathetic gurgling noise. Eventually, whether or not anyone has come, all that's left is a large green puddle of slime.
...With a leather jacket, some athletic shorts, and a pair of boots floating in it.]
Rider | Splatoon manga
[Rider starts when he wakes to a skeleton in front of him, but out of surprise, not horror. His brow quickly knits as he gives a confused frown. He knows what he's looking at, of course. Bones, human ones. They're in museums and science books everywhere. They're not even terribly difficult to find on your own if you dig around in some places, and certainly no fish skeleton looks quite like that, so any inkling would know what they are. But why is he waking up on what looks and feels like a rickety ship with a whole bunch of them all dressed up? Is someone trying to prank him?]
I swear, if I've gotten dragged into- what?
[His hand goes immediately to his mouth, and that's when Rider knows something is truly very wrong. His voice didn't come out right; it sounds flat and alien. He's already pulling himself to his feet, pushing through the numb shock as more and more doesn't add up. The texture of his skin is wrong. His limbs feel oddly stiff. He runs his tongue along his beak, finding instead a row of much smaller individual things in his mouth - teeth. He pulls his hand away again and stares at it, closing it slowly into a fist as he notices the strange... shells? at the tips of his too-rounded fingers and the tiny hairs barely visible against his skin.
He doesn't have to touch his head to conclude that he no longer has tentacles there, but he does anyway, cringing at the soft, stringy feel of what can only be some kind of fur. His ears are tiny and round now, and-
No, stop. He forces his hand back down, shaking himself. He can't think about this right now. He has to get out of here, figure out where he is and who or what is behind this. And whether anyone else he knows is involved, because Rider knows that if the others are here it'll probably be down to him to be the sane one about it.
The first thing he does is search every nook and cranny below decks, though the bottles of rum go ignored altogether and the chests only get a scowl when he pries them open and finds nothing useful inside. His Dynamo Roller doesn't seem to be here anywhere, so he's without a weapon too. If he could even use it like this in the first place.
He may, however, be so focused on his search that he's managed to miss that he's not entirely alone. Bother the intense but shaken looking teen in the leather jacket, or bide your time?]
[Three]
[Getting a laptop handed to him and told that there's an online network is the most strangely comforting thing that's happened to Rider since he arrived. The machine may be bulky and clunky, and he may not have been the biggest user of social media back home, but it's at least something familiar. So, he's sat down on a bench by a main road, and wastes no time in posting without even glancing at the current recent and popular posts.]
< InkyRider > I can already tell that this place is going to be a giant headache, so I have just one question.
Are there any competitive sports around here? Preferably weapons based, but I'll take anything to blow off some steam.
Also, please let me know if anyone sees a blue idiot wearing goggles.
[Four]
[Rider's heard it all plenty of times by now. You'll turn into a monster. It's the fog. There's no way to prevent it. It doesn't sound the least bit pleasant, but he's grumpily resigned himself to the fact that all he can really do is brace himself for it.
The fog still catches him off guard.
He was walking home from the part-time job he'd picked up, and he'd looked down to briefly tally the pay he'd gotten that day. When he looks back up, he can't see a foot in front of him. He slows immediately, cautiously pocketing the money, but on the very next step his foot seems to sink right into the ground.
He stares at it, and for a long moment all that goes through his mind is wondering how on earth he'd managed to lose control of his ink. After slightly too long he remembers that he's no longer an inkling, and his foot really shouldn't be dissolving into a lime green puddle for any reason.
Except one.]
Crap! No, not now...!
[Rider reaches out, trying to grab his leg and pull it back upwards, but that... doesn't really help when said leg is literally becoming goo. It's spreading, too, his form taking on a slick, glossy, semi-transparent greenish sheen as he slowly loses cohesion. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it feels a lot like very slowly being splatted in a way that's very wrong, and Rider fails to pull himself together before he begins to panic.
He flails at anything he can possibly catch hold of - the streetlight next to him, a passerby, even the ground itself once he sinks low enough, but it's all in vain. His fingers turn to mush at the slightest pressure, slipping around whatever he tries to grab, and by the time he thinks to call for help all he can make is a pathetic gurgling noise. Eventually, whether or not anyone has come, all that's left is a large green puddle of slime.
...With a leather jacket, some athletic shorts, and a pair of boots floating in it.]