David Bernard sits, cross-legged, on the far end of the conference room table. All of the chairs in the room have been pushed out to the walls, making his perch look more like a runway than a meeting table. Behind him, a transparent portal runs the width of the room, showing nothing but darkness. The Nautilus is running too deep for light to filter through the water outside. He suppresses an involuntary shiver as he imagines the immensity of the ocean around him. That tiny strip of not-glass is all that separates him from it. It occurs to him, yet again, that it might be safer to wait until he’s on solid ground before trying this. He reminds himself, yet again, that everyone is running out of time.
Arthur Franklin’s first memory is that of goosebumps running down the length of his arms. He shivers, opens his eyes, then immediately squeezes them shut as light burns into the back of his head. He turns his face, raising a hand to cover his eyes. He shivers, and realizes he’s only wearing a medical gown.
'Tis the season to tell people exactly what information we do and do not collect. Most sites are doing this because the European Union just passed a law that makes them. I'm not entirely convinced this site is obliged to do any such thing, but I do believe that making people aware of what information is gathered and used on the net is a Very Good Thing. As such, I present to you, to the very best of my knowledge, a list of information that is collected and used by Eviscerati.Org.
The movement draws at him, the music calls to him, and the light shows the way.
Dancers in the gazebo weave and spin and glide across the floor. Music pours forth, filling the world around him. Starlight reflects off the pond’s surface; lanterns shine, hanging from the bridges connecting the gazebo to the rest of the grounds. And the gazebo blazes like a beacon, light pouring out behind the dancers, turning them into half-shadows framed behind white latticework and columns.
Even at a distance, he feels a current leading to the gazebo’s center. The dance is a whirlpool, and he is caught in it.