User blog:Stormlilly/XVII. Clattering off the elevator, you step into fresh, loamy, soil...

You appear to be in some sort of greenhouse. The air is sweet - almost too sweet, like a mixture of rosewater and rancid food left over for days on end. Occasionally, water or slurry drips from the roof into the garden and deposits itself into the soil via a cleverly built terrace.

There are fresh flowers, fresh vegetables, fresh fruits. Each seems to be more inviting then the last, tempting your sense of touch, smell and taste. Each looks more then good enough to eat, and it takes everything in you not to fall upon them and consume to your hearts content. Only the dull ache in your right shoulder keeps you anchered to reality, telling you that you're better then that.

In addition...

There is one other thing growing here, besides plants.

Affixed to the earth, drooling and infirm - are human beings.

They are quiet and listless, their eyes long since gone blank. They do not seem to be moving or thinking, yet neither do they appear to be dead. You stare at the expansive greenhouse - and realize that for every ten or so plants, there is at least one person. You count perhaps fifty people in all - and shudder.

Yet - the sense of peace in this room remains, even as you feel nauseous. Walking along the trellised dirt, you wonder who keeps this place in such good care. And yet, ahead of you...

So you've found this place.

It is not spoke, nor unexpected. Somehow, you knew they'd be here and that they'd speak - the enigmatic humanoid creature, straw-like limbs hanging limply at its side. Though it's 'face' is covered with a bag urging you to recycle, it can see you quite clearly - each of several, perhaps eight holes doing little to obscure curious eyes.

''I could kill you. I'm very hungry.''

''I could *grow* you. You'd be happy here, and safe.''

... And I could let you leave.

The figure circles you several times, and you can sense that it won't kill you - at the moment - and that it doesn't want to let you leave. You do not know how you know - only that it is desperate, and lonely, and you have nowhere to run.

Your shoulder aching, you speak without thinking. You -

Consent to join with the warm soil.

Ask to be set free.

Ask for release.