Fiction:Token

With a slow grunt, Khaakov slowly pried his eyes open. He found himself staring into tinted glass, a glass cage stretched farther top off the height of his head to down his very lower feet. A small room was on the other side of the glass, cylindrical in shape. Khaahov found himself aligned on the side along the room's axis. On one end was an airlock, the other end was an dead end, the wall decorated with shelf-like recesses. The only wall in between was not plain, it was a work of utilitarian design: there was another pod, its transparent cover closed, but clear. Opposite it was another pod, Khaakov recognized the design to be a wardrobe. Opposite the pod he was occpuying was a flat surface, decorated with technology.

A long arm wriggled out through a hole of the fabric encapsulating Khaahov's body, the fur defied physics, waving in air almost fluidly. Rubbing his face and muzzle along with tired grunting. Now sufficiently awake, he punched a button on the side of the interior, the cage withdrew in two directions, retracting into the pod's top and bottom. Additional hands produced out of the cocoon and searched for clasps restraining him to the mattress. Khaahov's body begun to lift off the matress as well as he undid more of the clasps. A ziplock mechanism was finally undone, opening the cocoon and he begun peeling the fabric off his body. The fabric free off the body, it spun slowly around its own pivot.

His body uncovered and hovering free in air, Khaahov cowered and enjoyed a brief moment of peace. Then straightened his body, stretching, but the pod did not have enough room to allow it proper. He exited and flexed in every direction, then straightened so much he could, reach out to his full glory. For every motion he made, the long mane-like hair that grew out of back of Khaahov's head, neck and back, and tail, waved about in fluid slow-motion.

To move and orient himself around the room, he propelled with his limbs around on railings mounted on every side of the room. Close to the shelf-like end of the room, he leaned to a hatch mounted to the wall. Knowing it was the cabinet purposed for storing food, he opened it and withdrew two balls of synthetic meat wrapped in plastic, and a clear bottle, its insides obscured by a silvery foil. He used his other free hands to reach to an other shelf below the cabinet, and retrieved a hard tube, and a piston-pump.

The cabinet closed, Khaahov pulled himself back to the flat surface in front of the pod he used to sleep in, jabbing the piston-pump in the bottle's neck and begun pulling the plunger, sucking contents out of the bottle into the pump's hold with tight precision. Using his lower feet to hold into the railing to keep himself in place, he used the other two to begin peel off the wrapping off one of the balls, the other ball straying slightly in air in front of him. One ball unwrapped and ready to eat, he reached to the flat surface and removed a tablet computer, cowering his body a slight as he started to navigate through the online interface and eating his own breakfast at once.

Drink served through a straw by pushing the plunger of the pump in his one hand, meatball being eaten from the other, he operated the computer with two hands. He accessed the intranet of the vessel, updating himself with memos, news, and announcements. Then he looked for news from his own home territories, it was the usual every-day food: blood courts in disagreement, frontiers in siege by the vranntan, seldom reports of from the wars on both the front against the vranntan and the neighboring nuisance. There were also other news from the foreign worlds, but he swept past them with dismissive motion.